Issue Nine:

By Deb Scudder

Gardening tired grit in your eyes, three

tiny spiders in your hair from cutting shrubs

three feet over your head because you haven’t

cut them for three years. There are three cuts

on your hand from the shears you used to hack

the fuchsia down to the soil, its first pruning in

three years. You couldn’t find the secateurs

in the shed that you can’t walk into anymore,

have to stand in the doorway, peer in, hope

what you seek will be poking out of a box

or bag you can reach. Nobody has cleaned

the shed in three years, and there is three years

of rot stacked against three walls, and on the floor

among spilled hay for a rabbit that died three

years ago. It is uneasily organised, but there’s no room

for even a breath. Three years the garden slept

untended, the fug hung undriven from the shed.

Where did the energy go instead?


About the Contributor

Deb Scudder is the author of the novel The Hag in the Woods and now concentrates on writing poetry. She lives in Lincolnshire, UK.

Losslit canon

H is for Hawk - Helen MacDonald

This is a very moving and powerful book, full of a deep understanding of nature and how death is part of life. The author works through the loss of her father by rearing and training a goshawk.  

See all entries in the Losslit canon

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