– for Biddy
Weasel skull, or little cat, animal wild
or tame, makes no difference now. Chambers open, dry
where the soft channels kept movement, whatever version
of pleasure, noise, contusion, pain.
River bend. Bones water-dropped, hunted
among the clay and stones – clavicle, rib, also
knucklebones, knocking in the hand.
Rattled in a saucepan until – clean, white,
still chalkily warm – they scatter between us, shards and
on the flowered carpet.
Grafted pear tree, three fruit shapes and subtle tastes.
The speckled pears come last of all.
Hands seaching windfalls turn up a tust.
Earth-yellowed, splintered, mitred to a cutting edge,
it rose to your fingers – pointed evidence,
the last wild boar of Kelburn.