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there are no wombed doctors who’ll deliver in the west
pumpkin parasols make their procession
across the lawn
from the compost to the apricot tree
i phone till the engaged becomes a voice
to be seen at eleven
i bus to the mysterious green door
in the Crescent
i can hear children’s voices in the background
and she puts her fingers inside me
when we’ve hardly been introduced
one apple on the wire espalier
and behind and before it
the rain drifting
i stir the coldness of the speculum out
with weak tea
and wonder
how the fat rice grains
became suspended
in the wall of the porcelain pot
© Janet Charman
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