From Ariel

A line of breath. A cut. Poppies in October and in July. Little hell flames. The dead bell, the dead bell. The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters. The grasses unload their griefs; the yew tree points up. The clouds are like cotton, armies of them. A thick grey death-soup.

No day is safe from news, looked for like mail. The world hurts God. The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees. The butcher, the grocer, the postman. The magician's girl. A Roman mob, my god, together!

Red scar in the sky, red comet.

Sir So-and-so's gin. A briefcase of tangerines.

Darkness so pure, vacuous black. Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti. Glittering.

Dawn gilds the farmers like pigs. Mad, calls the spider, waving its many arms. Desperate butterflies, pinned any minute, anaesthetised. Colour floods to the spot. It is over. The world purrs, shut off and gentle.

Picture credit: Trunk of an old yew tree, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (source: WikiArt).

See Ariel by Sylvia Plath. 

From journal, January 2023.