That Other Walking Stick
Her father too had an ash-black stick
he used to whack the heads off weeds.
He thwacked off the foxglove heads
with the stick he acquired when he was lamed.
He sent them flying, pinks and reds,
with a swish and flick of his black ash stick.
The pinks and reds flew through the air
like bullets sure-fired and purposely there.
With a swish and rick of the backlash stick
her father left the lane bare of heads
and the stalks remained, alive though maimed,
without their beauty pinks and reds.
Without their beauty pinks and reds
they lived on though seemed to be dead,
while petals were scattered and smattered there
where the ashen stick laid everything bare.
If you've any comment on this poem, Siobhan Campbell would be pleased to hear from you.