The Plan by Irene Watson

The Plan

Capture shade of sundials in curled hands.

Shutter hours passing with a shield of metal marker.

Ponder elegance of stone numerals
in their plainspoken steadiness, their correctness.

(If)

I can move the trapped umbrage south, then maybe
it will stifle the dark. (A tiny robin pouts his redbreast
tells me: You won’t manage.)

Fill spaces with machinery.

Fix a hinge, talk to the hinge, press the hinge flat
between large tombs. (The dog’s eyes follow me).

Stop birds plundering berries from holly trees,
leaving all the plain green that I can bear.

(The dog’s heart presses
on her lungs like a straining accordion,
holes in the bellows.)

Offer pennies into hollow wells, asking for less.

Wait a whole day for your arrival. (Supper dries into powder,
vases droop their flora, roses
crisp-edged.)

Pass the days blunt-cut, no lipstick.

Obscure light.

Steam the room colourless.

Dream of shadowless fields, mossed ground.

(Listen to the dog: We could run. The babies have grown).

Irene Watson is a mid-career artist and poet based in rural Perthshire. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Gone Lawn, The Dillydoun Review, Words for the Wild, Poet’s Republic, Obsessed with Pipework, and others. Her essay collection, Drying Out the Old House, was longlisted by The Emma Press in 2021.