Baba Yaga,

old wolf-tooth witch –

tattoo artist, staining our fingers

indigo and crimson

with her crazy cross-stitch.


One year I tried to clear you from my patch,

hewing at my grief

with my mother’s spade.


Yet even as I heaved and chopped

the whole of you remained intact –

you recomposed yourself,

black veins spooling new life,

your bog body still transmitting

like a field telephone

through the trenches I had dug.




Temporary Carpark.

For two summers, maybe three,

this was our foraging ground,

black blobs of ink falling loose

into cupped hands.


In her carapace of tarmac

bramble waits for her moment

to pierce and puncture,

inserting spikes and crampons

to scale a horizontal

bitumen face, that surely

only a pneumatic drill

could shatter.


Still she waits, camps out

in benders of jagged fretwork

embroiders the edges with barbed lace.


Temporary – for her

the word has a different meaning,

like time itself,

she moves back and forwards,

scratching, suturing,

scoring each September

with drupelets darker than blood.