Stingers
Was it the
purple flash
of woodpigeon,
grey midges scribbling
the air. Perhaps
the quick, clean cut
of the chainsaw
or history written
over and over in mud.
No β it was the sting
and blister
of the nettles,
their reminder
of threshold. Leaves
buoyant with tiny
knives, tender
where the dead
things are. They sink
their roots into
heavy ground
and make fertile
soil. Heal
our ungodly
wounds.