Beth McDonough

In the invisible garden,

February smirrs on grassed squelch,
which is not.
Our soles feel rock.

Upstart bulbs snout green
from themselves, but hide activities
under beechmast and mud.

Beside bishopweed’s unfettered strength
in curled albino lines,
we find no white in mire.

From shilpit sticks, from softs of moss,
slips of lichen grow. The label says
‘Hibiscus. Blue-flowers’. Who knows?


Beth McDonough’s work connects strongly with place, particularly to the Tay, where she swims, foraging nearby. Her poetry is published in Gutter, Stand, Causeway and elsewhere. She reviews at DURA. Handfast (with Ruth Aylett) investigates experiences of autism and dementia. Lamping for pickled fish will be published very soon.



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