(from the ballad of burdock, bogbean and bluebell)
the line was before mewling gasp of baby into world, nettled straightening between oak ash beech hornbeam and concrete grey, the wood and the not-wood, the known and the not known
curly toes behind the line, clenching fists behind, eyes like kindling
crossing is danger
beyond is bad men prowling shotgun mobs, not-caves shelled and crumbling, scratchy air of smoky illness death
the line was before first memory which is ma—skin dog-rose pink—in a smile and a hum, and pa—me sitting on his shoulders—his strong strides beneath, small rattle of a cough
coughs are danger, they’re bad like belching gases and bomb dust hiding in the grass
the line was after bomb
before bomb, ma and pa had a not-cave with a hammock and a porch, did dreary jobs, went vroom in a magic box
after bomb, ma and pa were woodland forage pregnant baby
baby was me
that’s before me, not now me standing at the line, raising foot, bending knee
the line was before first steps when ma said clever boy and i went toddle toddle then tumble in the bracken hurty shin scrape clutching wailing comfrey yarrow—these are meadow plants for salving
there’s feverfew for pain, liquorice for sweat
before there was parrot-seat-a-mole, aspy-ring, aunty-biotix from farmer’s sea
farmer’s sea isn’t a real sea
real sea is puddle bigger than the wood just like mountain is anthill bigger than a tree and sittees are not-cave honeycomb, some small not-caves, some tall not-caves that chafe the sky
the sky was before the line
it was before ma and pa and pa’s ma and pa, before bad men bombs and belching gas, before magic vroom box and metal birds, before smoke, before wars, before not-caves, before people badgers squirrels starlings lizards spiders ants
ant is crossing the line like crossing the line is easy, like maybe ant-ma never said never-never, didn’t spin the danger of what might happen in big bad beyond
foot is lowered again now, thoughts are shuffling backwards from the line like a cowering fox
the line was before first nursing, pa in a sweat, ma with liquorice lemon garlic, me with water from the brook
first nursing was before first digging in loamy earth
second digging is a nightmare, not a real thing, not yet
other nightmares are zombies, tree roots turning into hands, bad men coming to the wood, big spiders
better dreams are sploshing in the sea, flying in a metal bird
my foot is up again now, my eyes are watching ant
when it was pa, ma said she’d go to farmer’s sea but pa wouldn’t let her, didn’t want her going across the line, me neither
that was before ma’s rainy cheeks, before her earthquake sobs, her skin turning scarlet, her volcanic cough
a volcano is a mountain made of fire just like my mind is made of water as i try to place my foot beyond the line, try to stamp it on the concrete grey which smoulders in the sun, and pa saying don’t, and ma saying do, and bad men maybe prowling in the barren, bomb dust in the grass
i lean
ant has scuttled out of sight now, maybe scuttling to farmer’s sea for aunty-biotix because ant-ma is sick, maybe she was shivering in her sleep and babble babbling about a meadow which is grass and flowers, cows and sheep, maybe this morning she was cold and quiet like pa before first digging
second digging is a nightmare, but maybe not a real thing if i can do what ma said and go to farmer’s sea
and here’s my foot on concrete grey which doesn’t burn like in pa’s warnings
here’s no bad men no bombs no shotguns no scritchy-scratchy air
nothing worrying except the not going forwards
second step is easier
then i’m scuttling like ant
Matt Kendrick is a writer, editor and teacher based in the East Midlands, UK. His work has been featured in various journals and anthologies including Craft Literary, Best Microfiction, The Best Small Fictions, and the Wigleaf Top 50.
Find out more about Matt at:
Website: www.mattkendrick.co.uk
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Twitter: @MkenWrites