The Hedge

   motions vaguely upwards
at the will    of the  wind
   says    this   is the   way
it’s a crowd  that   sways
   as Patti       sings        love
is a ring  on the telephone

   it’s a       frenzy     of arms
hungry   for a       touch
   as the      limousine door
swings open    it’s sagging
   in apology    this mob     of
phony    Christmas    trees
   does it     act      this     way
for the man     who stands
   at his    window    washing
his dishes (his shirt is blue
   with suds      at the paunch)
is it his system to distance
   the neighbours     a struggle
of branches vying for  sun
   someone may come to clip
his side & how does it feel
   to       look        upon order
while   scrubbing the pots
   I wonder this again & again
I’m comfortable   in chaos
   but the   other   has its draw
for now we call it  ‘hedge’
   the splendid green between
us        tirelessly   at play

   

Lauren Garland grew up in Leeds. Now based in Manchester, she works for a child mental health charity and studies on the Masters programme in Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. Her poetry has appeared in Butcher’s Dog, and she has work forthcoming in Poetry Salzburg Review.

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