Geraldine Connolly

IN MY RUINED GARDEN

All day long
the undergrowth spreads.

Terrible flames
of sunlight are catching
the weeds on fire.

If I could only find my machete
I could hack my way of here,
I could cut down
the screaming thorns.

Here the lizards wear collars
and scurry among rocks
like escaped prisoners.

Leafy spurge, buffel grass.
Chained wings flutter
from nettles.

Even the gardener wears
a black hood and carries
a long sickle
engraved with my initials.