The Hollow
This path that skirts
the cold cluttered shed,
surly-fronted with tasselled
dock and stinging nettle,
slips down into the hollow
where mire and winter’s dregs
seep and settle
in greasy black cakes.
Thick sprouting elder
and brambles throw out limbs
and foot-catching loops along the track.
Bees lose their way
as frothing blossom sinks low;
lazy beetles rummage,
drowsy-drunk on pollen
smelling more of mould than May.
Sombre sagging leaves on leaves,
airless branches, heirless dry
twig-ends stretch out to spike
heads with downcast eyes.
One abreast is all
but all are alone
stepping through
on black thorned thoughts.
Press on. Press on
up the rise. And up.
Light fractures the thick curtain
and polishes the leaves.
Out onto the grassland, looking
round, trees tinselled in the sun,
the hollow softly beards
the quiet face of the down.
After studying French, Jane Angué now lives and works in France, teaching English Language and Literature. She enjoys introducing her students to poetry. She writes in French and English, was longlisted for the Erbacce Prize 2018 and her work has recently appeared in incertain regard, Le Capital des Mots and Dawntreader.
