Poetry

Nettles

I thought of nothing but my slow heartbeat,
The red rivers inside,
my breathing and the buzzing
of every limb and every layer of skin,
Every nerve.

My mind, my mind is clear.

And then I fell into the fog,
And I thought about a smile.
Thought of a path through birches,
An alabaster infant, laid down in nettles,
gripping them tightly in fat little fists,
and said they tickle.
Picked them from the roots and called them
roses, a vase lined with thistles
placed on the windowsill to sit
and wait in grey light,
for the stings to fade,
                          their spikes to dull,
their leaves to brown.

Isabelle Grimshaw