Yearning soft flesh, I find thistles
all spike, all thorn,
green turned bitter.
Winter buried you
deep from me, son
deep from the wounds of generations,
but somehow
the heart of you lives
in a place
I can’t fathom.
Where now my sapling
where now my
willow-limbed sprite?
Where now the boy who played in the barley
the skylark that flew?
Where now the snowdrop
huddled beneath the rime?
Poem by Heather Haigh
Images by Heather Haigh
Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie, working-class writer and visual artist. She is published by Oxford Flash Fiction, Fictive Dream, Bath Flash Fiction, Sunlight Press, Pithead Chapel and numerous others. She has won or been placed in several competitions and awards. She lives in Yorkshire with her husband and too many balls of yarn.
Backwards Trajectory 