Bed

In a rented garden you didn’t grow,
Thick with weeds and rubble so
You dig out shards of glass and bricks and roots
Sift through construction debris
And take it to the refuse centre.

The sun strikes your dirt-encrusted feet,
They nudge worms back into the good soil
You found underneath
And create space for something new
To plant.

But what?
Or who?

Searching in the mirror every day,
All you see is someone else’s face and body.
“How did I used to be?”
You ask, because you need to remember
Which you you do not want to be,

All yous and thems contending from the past so
Luring. Notice, on each side of the broken fence
The you who loves spiders
And each fly bound with web?
These options still, laid in

An unmade bed, before and after.
Yet, there are no make-over-hauls of history
Just broken thread counts,
Embedded conversations loosened
Far too confidential to repeat,

So you delete. Hose off
The site of excavation and a sheet.
Oh look! Can you see the rainbow where you are spraying
Water in the air? It lands where you are standing
Green again.