Liz Marney 

In the old back garden 

the apple tree is still in springtime

she forgets that autumn exists 

now that she is only a memory –

old blood coursing through new veins.

Cinder-flesh charred, bonfire, phoenix,

ready to be more than grief.

We meet where salted earth 

is rolled with rosary.

Unfurl like a babies fist 

like a sigh of relief 

a yawn, a prayer.

We give and we pour, 

old as worshipped idol 

caught in a throe of life 

see both the sunrise 

and the sunset,

nestle our heads 

into mundane’s lap.

Time becomes serrated 

she grates against our skin 

she teaches us to slow 

to breathe deep and full

when we feel good air.

Sleep comes like sanctuary 

and waking tastes like hope. 

The worship doesn’t always

stick to these bones but 

absolution always comes.