We live in ponds, amid
growing weed, dot upon dot. Water
is green. Rain can fall in handfuls, but it no longer
matters in here. Limbs of scanty spindles, angled
from corners of flighty bodies: we, can walk
on water: kites in line with the wind: tiny rowers
in bitty boats; here and there perfectly still— now and then
ping, like children scattering at parks, (Those moments
when I couldn’t find them, heart thumping against its cage.
Black stick cuts into edged holes. Hiding. In hollowed-out trees
in throats of canopies: forest fairies) still as discarded shells. Surface
tension balances their weight. Satin wings floating for fun.
Irene Watson creates art spaces with communities where ever she finds herself. She uses text and poetry within her artwork, which has been exhibited widely. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Poet’s Republic 19, Obsessed with Pipework, Pork Belly Press, Hybriddich Press, Gone Lawn, The Dillydoun Review, Words for the Wild, Cateran Eco Museum, Q/A Poetry and elsewhere. She loves to create cinepoems for other poets and is hand printing her first poetry collection with Amigo Press.