Pickerty Witch

by Christopher Barnes

She crystallizes in the windowpane first,
A celestial dust-fallen one-off,
Telekinetic kin of Jimi Hendrix
She spurts — a lacewing smock
And a ceremonial hobble skirt mushroom crumbly.

Time lapses, shapelessly.
Now she’s in the holly fern
With solo tooth, the one auspicious eye,
Stocktaking flora noun by noun.
This is the rote-retention game she concocted
On her ninety-fourth poppy day.

She disappears.
The angle poise reddens winter mosses.
The velocity of time begins again:
A widowed cat,
An anonymous young couple
With a dreamy Vauxhall pick-up
And the sweep of dust
Down naked stairs.