For years I watched
a swell of nightmares galloping
along the garden wall.
My father would come home, untying
a weary bouquet, the smell of
God working his breath.
Hinged moths paused
upon beveled glass, solitude
a hundred waiting matchboxes.
Things have injured me.
All day & now the low night,
the night says it will always be
this way: the violence of nature
enchants its laws.
I’d hold a lamp near the window,
a child who polished saddles & bridles,
wiping blood & froth away
from the work of memory.
Rachel Eliza Griffiths
More work here, including some amazing photographs.