Issue 12

Summer 2014


The Constant Gardener

Bent, furrowed, unlikely in her orange dress
in the grey front yard at the side
of what used to be a main road.

The sunshine is watery but persistent;
the radio irrelevant, a foreign language

as she tidies the beds for an absence,
cuts back rose bushes for loss,

feeling the dryness of the soil,
the stillness of evening,
keeping a journal of the plague year.


Joe Caldwell