A F Harrold
A.F. Harrold is a poet working
in various fields: from the serious business of his Two Rivers Press collections
Flood and Logic & The Heart, to the comic performance poetry he takes
round comedy, cabaret and festival events. He also writes children’s poetry (I Eat
Squirrels ). He’s the host of Reading’s monthly Poets’ Cafe at South
Street Arts Centre.
Image by Mike Taylor
Houseplants
I am almost always a helpless killer of houseplantsWhen my obituary gets written it won’t read –
the poet, who died peacefully in the bath last night,
is survived by three aspidistra and a succulent.
No – they will have gone on long before me.
I’m led to believe it may be an inherited trait –
my nan never received flowers for long.
She gave away growing gifts as soon as
the generous givers were out of the room.
My mother took them in – they grew for her.
I suffer an addictive personality – in short bursts.
Sudden enthusiasms erupt and wither with time –
what filled my days, mind and hands soon goes –
the love affair runs out of steam, the steamer sits
filling a corner of the kitchen dry and silent.
Poor plants though – taken in always in good faith
and overwatered liberally for a few quick weeks –
they wilt with my indulgence, my diligence, my care,
but how else, I ask, can I show them my love?
Like flannels they droop, look sick, and I feel guilt,
promise to give them space, and soon do just that.
Passing through the living room one day, I notice
a stick drop its last yellow leaf into a pot of dry earth –
and I apologise, feel the guilt twist, but run outside
to where my new friend sits waiting in her new car.
© A F Harrold