White Clothes
by and published in Edition Four of Pomegranate
This is not the weather for white clothes.
The sky is white and he is buried –
We need anchoring.
(this dead Christmas arm
Slides bonelessly around the house
Coiled like a garden hose
Pressed up against the windows
Cutting off our oxygen)
There used to be places where
You could not be seen
Standing up :
Behind the apple tree, but it’s bald now
Or next to the fishpond, if it was raining.
Now the garden is waist-high – Nothing has taken.
And I crawl, palm-flat
Over the frozen black ground
Behind the sad dead Christmas tree like a bad dream in a prayer.
Juliet Powys
Juliet Powys has been writing poetry since the death of her uncle in 2001. What began as an escape from everyday life quickly became a means of life-affirming catharsis. She draws inspiration from conversations and observations which, in their complexity, would not forgive silence. Her poetry is highly experimental, and spans several forms, from structured to free-form. Juliet aims through her art to elucidate, elevate and render empathic the beauty and suffering which we tend to overlook. She is currently a student in Cambridge, UK.