some days I dither in the half-light of memory
some days I do not
this morning the wind is whistling—
enough to make an oddling leap—
while catkins on the birches are swaying
east swaying west
and when I tweak at flakes of bark
(touching smooth skin below)
I remember how I climbed up branches
in the village spinney
remember how
I slithered on loose goose grass stems
that trailed through the bents
it was then I loved to pull a goose grass stalk
and tease the sticky knot
Jack-at-the-hedge prickly seed
hug-me-close clingy bead
hide and crouch clapped pouch
even here—
where asylum trees glitter in the sun
goose grass stalks are clambering
up and down my sleeves
this moment and perhaps for twenty more
who I am is clear
and look burrs of goose grass cleave-to-me
cleave-to-me
they’re kisses from another world
Jan Hutchison