Mary Michaels

 

Fly

Her painting of the garden, as it used to be

yellow and purple irises, a red gladiolus, lots of red roses
and brown shadows like animals rushing towards the pond

a man is standing near the corner in the park with bread in his hand
complaining that there are no birds to be seen

the rim of the letterbox curtained with spiders' webs

the grey torn net—pull across the window-pane—car exhaust blackens it

mauve buddleia spikes, pink hydrangea heads, white roses
orange and maroon gladioli and a tendril of ivy like a leafy snake

when it was hers

*

Pale underbelly of the robin, cormorant's white throat
song of robin—cormorant diving—

not being able to find the memorial stone
although it was the month of both parents' birthdays, looking
over and over, crossing paths, recrossing, with the red-haired woman
who comes down on the train and takes the bus back

she walks about alone, with binoculars and quickly

the trees turning the colour of her hair—just slightly red, light red
light red, yellow-green—the sky clumping them up
with sunshine and shade

finding it finally

*

Black crows along the beach

somebody picking up seaweed and putting it in a plastic bag
turnstones that look like white-flecked pebbles

three birdwatchers, all green Gore-Tex, tripods and binoculars
stride off across the shingle past the notice that says
ROOSTING AREA— PLEASE KEEP AWAY AT HIGH TIDE
water coming up, up, up

bending to their tripods, in a line, like a row of early photographers
heads under the hoods of their cameras

it is high tide

*

Crow sitting on a dark branch
and all the long grass of the rain-soaked park
deep green and the trees
their leaves being lifted off with a fluttering

a woman on the tarmac path lying down
with her keys a little distant
her fall, not seen

out of the hole in the black bottle-bank
a wasp rises like a wisp of smoke
the bottles dropping still sticky with wine

a slow fly on the curtain, cleaning its legs

from the potter's display in the market, a bluebottle zigzagged

the tall, pale, oval-faced woman in her brocades and wimple-like veil
looking down on the wares and the vendor

the fly runs up the window-pane.

 


Copyright © Mary Michaels, 2007.

Mary Michaels lives in London. Her most recent publications are Assassins (Sea Cow, 2006), a poetry chapbook, and a book of prose fictions My Life in Films (The Other Press, 2006).