Two Poems by Kate Garrett

Through Bruton Park

summer hangs
     over the edge
of the orchard

grasping at autumn's
  scarf-ends
& ripening apples
     coax from each adolescent branch

your boy departs
     from the path

the hood up on his black sweatshirt
a druid to scale
creeping amongst those poppet trees

he respects & inspects
hands in pockets

returns, face glowing

a harvest sun



Beside the Irish Sea

testing folktales
               you push your luck--

it is said

whistling
off the welsh coast
brings misfortune
to all on board

but you have no ship

there is only you
& only tiptoes
over pebbles
               smooth
to touch
               but tough
to cross
     barefoot

where the foam paints
the tide line red
with beached jellyfish

stretched flat
& doomed

& where she
once described
(as she rested
in hospital)
as a place
she'd found a sign
from the angels:

          white feathers dashed
                    & fluttering
                              across the sand

Kate Garrett was born thirtysomething years ago in southwestern Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999.  She is senior editor for poetry and flash fiction at Pankhearst, and founding editor of Three Drops Press (which includes the folklore, myths, and fairytales webzine Three drops from a cauldron).  Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her latest poetry pamphlet, The Density of Salt, is forthcoming in 2016 from Indigo Dreams Publishing.  She lives in Sheffield.