Jehane Markham

Monthly poem - September 2020

ANOTHER COUNTRY

The wind beating the leaves to a crazy froth
and the wasps living inside the greengages
and bruised plums like hungry feeders
inside a warm mattress.

And the sunlight on the carpet
so faded, its reds and blues
and the paint coming off the front door
the resin bubbling through in small scabs.

In Russia there is a white room
with a white wooden panelled ceiling
and wallpaper that looks varnished with age
and a white window behind a white lace curtain.

I could write in this room
hearing the thud of apples falling
in Pasternak’s orchard;
feel the frozen tears of Tsvetayeva on my knuckles.

But lay me down here
besides the geraniums, scarlet on brick
and the sweet greengages
like melting treasure in the yellow basket.