Monday, 26 March 2018

A poem by Ali Jones

Spider plant


She pots it furtively, five minutes before you leave,
presses your hand with afterthoughts, a little bit of green.
The engine calling, she wipes her nose on her sleeve,
turns back to the house and the spaces where you’ve been.

It journeys with you, hall to house to home,
a presence to hold feathers, and fragrant joss sticks.
Surviving in high windows, caprice keeps it alone,
a guardian of parties, studies , the ones that stick.

Yearly, pot changed and plate polished, it stands,
you eye its roots, wonder why it hasn’t died.
Green tendrils, spreading, ever hopefully, reaching,
where you are, she can always touch you, you cannot hide.

And you wonder if one day you’ll hand it on,
press cuttings into their hands as they are gone.






Ali Jones is a teacher and mother of three. Her work has appeared in Fire, Poetry Rivals, Strange Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin Poetry, Atrium, Mother’s Milk Books, Breastfeeding Matters, Green Parent magazine and The Guardian. Her pamphlets Heartwood and Omega are forthcoming with Indigo Dreams Press in 2018.

1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed this. It reminded me of my green fingered mother who was always growing things from cuttings and pressing them on people who came to visit us.

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