Written by Catherin J Pascal Dunk
Before I turned bad,
memories of paradise.
Willow-tree creek, undammed.
Steel buckets, inched with ice.
The velvet and scent of fresh goat.
Kittens I briefly adored.
Driving home with dad
in the LandRover—from town,
rabbit pee soaking my jeans, and
that truck smell—vinyl, grease?
Shinning the old oak.
Blackberrying, then
the jam, still hot
with butter, dripping.
Miniature worlds at ground level:
sawdust and wood chipped from notches;
layered rock and sheep teeth for
makeshift crockery, dirt dentistry;
grape hyacinth under gnarled plum, apple;
the first metre swarming with hoppers;
next, a butterfly disco;
above these, blossoms, fruits.
But now that I’m bad,
and the old oak dead,
the minibeasts fled—
there’s space for nuance.
Text © Catherin J Pascal Dunk
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“The black dog barked / and was answered by other black dogs. // A black cat passed the way / crossing over from right to left. // It rained, my hair was soaked by heavens piss. // A relief.”