Paul Bavister

Elderflowers

It was an ugly tree, woody, overgrown
with suffering leaves I kept returning to
for oily fruit, powdery flowers,
set yeast to make a cloudy wine.

For years it pushed the fence
and you pushed me like a father
I never had, told me to cut it down,
split the roots, pour on drops

from a sunbleached bottle with a poison cross.
When the tree dreamed of spring and summer
I found a bowl of rotten flowers
behind the brewing wine

that fizzed and burned like a firefly
as you threw it into the night
with a flash so bright I expected
the appearance of a long lost friend.

I was surprised and within days
I cut down the tree
and it really did make you happy
and at ease with me

The Mechanic

My donkey jacket has flown away with the moths.
The car drips oily rust - mechanics never ring back.
I've moved too far out. There's a reason why
this place was so cheap - it's under attack
from insects that dig the garden and tunnel
the walls - beetles and butterflies
burst from their filthy sacks with my winter's
warmth and food in their guts.

Weeks later I hear a car on the track -
a mechanic who never rang back,
who fixes my car and gives a glance
that makes me glad I live alone.
He leaves a spanner under the seat
and weeks later it swings out
on a deadly bend and gets stuck
under the brake. I'm alright.

I take it back to him past the scrap yard
to the garage block. Axels and wish bones
drip their blood. His burner throws sparks
from the carcass of a car. The beak
of his welding mask keeps his face
in darkness as I place the spanner
on the tray. He nods and I know that very soon
I'll be seeing him again.

Spoon

I'm shown in by the decorators
and stand in the scrubbed down hallway -
a bare bulb whitewashes the gloom I knew.

I find myself in the kitchen
like a serious party goer
opening cupboards, all empty.

There's a teaspoon where the fridge was,
a beached minnow, sticky.
This cannot be my memento.

I will have to sift my mind's grit
forget this tidy, painted place,
become obsessed, upset.

Dough

On the plastic mat you rolled out dough
cut it and pressed on eyes to make
bright charms of family and friends.
I talked about the people I'd made
when I was young, grabbed the dough
and pinched out twisted figures -
piled them up as paybacks
for past insults and arguments.
Thinking harder I remember it wasn't
like that at all. We tried hard,
did our best, washed our hands.
It was the oven that turned
them into creatures never known
When you asked I said
they had to go in the bin
and you didn't scream -
you started again
rolling dough, remaking
our family and friends.