Vincent Turner: Weeds
Weeds
Choked by a rope of early March mist
the shed, undisturbed,
rots beyond enemy green lines.
Armed with burial song
We take our bitterness to them:
At first, little more than aimless swinging of stick
as though soldiers fatigued by the brutality of war.
Idly scything an opening,
we happen upon the circumstance of your passing.
In the summers of our youth
you shouldered the weight of your realm,
the echo of your spade clinking
against bone solid soil
Come dinner, your face was heat slapped and alive.
November nights were pithy-dark and cold.
Your outline hide and seeking in the falling dusk
we’d uncover you by the ember glow of your roll up.
The lopped weeds begin to sting
Recalling your technique we change
tack and unearth roots with frenzy
as if, by yanking away their presence
we could lessen the weight of your absence.
Vincent Turner resides in London, he has been writing for some time now, but has only recently began to submit work to publishers and Zines, recently his work has appeared in GloomCupboard, Three Lights, ReadThisMagazine, and ShootsandVines.
Vincent works has a drug and alchol worker by day, and plays the part of an insomniac by night. You can read more of his work at fortherainfromthegrave.blogpost.com
