by JLM Morton
Lay out the pitched roof
of your breastbone,
pick at the ice, the hay
that was cut but not baled,
smelling of heat and dust.
The finds of your hands,
ruddy and licked by dogs –
covered with spoils in the snow pit,
the blue jewels of your eyes
watches ticking.
Inter the parts
for your children to find
when the glacier melts
and snowflakes unfurl,
holding the artefacts –
your riding hat,
its grimy rim
and the velvet
defenceless fading
at the crown.
Deposit your quietness
– how you cried only
when necessary.
Sieve a kookaburra’s laugh
in the permafrost trench
with an old gum tree.
JLM Morton is a poet based in rural Gloucestershire in the west of England. Her debut pamphlet Lake 32 is published by Yew Tree Press. In 2021, she is working as poet in residence for the Stroudwater Textile Trust, exploring the role of trade cloth in colonial expansion. Between demands from her kids for high calorie snacks and wrenching another toy from the jaws of the dog, she writes – often while cooking. For more info, see: www.jlmmorton.com
