outside the window grow flax bushes

so close that they cling to the wooden frames

when it rains,

great black straps of licorice in the night air –

whipping, whipping, whip, whippetty, whip,

recoiling and racing back

to lash the panes.

the wind takes it out of these great roaring beasts.

& so, after a night

of calamitous flax,

when I draw the curtains

the mornings after rain

I am surprised to see

long gangly arms of flax,

demurely bent, half crooked,

an old lady’s teacup finger,

their thick bodies committed to the earth,

after all.