bardachd

In the gardens
of their mild southern crofts, their
end-of-the-line hillside vineyards,
where figs turn blue, and peppers dry
strung from the eaves,
old women move among flowers,
each with a worn knife, a sliver
crooked in the first finger
of her right hand —
each, like her neighbours,
drawing the blade
onto the callus of her thumb,
so flowers, creamy dahlias,( Read more... )