I draw a screwdriver from my handbag.
Four screws, sunk to their necks,
pin the tarred door to its splintered frame.
We gave up padlocks last year:
too many lost keys, and metal hearts,
worn openly, tempt straying hands.
The tin roof has new chapters of rust.
We dread chewed wires, mothy towels,
the selves we left, now mould-spotted.
The Philips glances off worn grooves,
but finally the timber grinds its hinge hips;
lost air sucks up the green light of oaks.
A glissando of duct tape releases boxes;
we uncurl the tent’s skins and peg out
our drey amidst a hug of oaks.
About the Author
Helen’s work has appeared in various magazines. In 2021 she was a finalist for the Brotherton Prize. She curates dyslexiapoetry.co.uk . Her pamphlet, This Lexia & Other Languages (v. press) was published in 2020. She has a sidekick hen puppet diva called Nigella.
