Alvingham Road
Ayesha Chouglay
these hands hold soil from the verge like it’s a holy book
turn it over with the fork so naturally it’s like the nuns I saw
in Rome entering a church, making the sign of the cross
bobbing in front of the altar, smooth hands gently rolling
fruit in the market, the peach skin holding the summer heat
hold my hand, duck, a daily rhythm like the call to prayer
in Finsbury Park, many hands, many feet, and the three of us walking past the gates
one saying oh I’m dreaming of a pub garden and now we sit within one, half a lager, twice,
unintentional pint of apple juice, and yes it’s small, but
there is something prayerful about it, about working the land, the conversation,
I imagine you stooping over the hole you dug, a weatherbeaten tree
hands like the leather rucksack I carried for years on the Northern Line
the saddle soap dousing
pressing the body of the tree into place, thick shoes
tamping it down, did you talk as you worked,
when I worked outside, teenager on placement, I was taught to ask the spirits
to let me fell the elder, I thought
do they remember after the years have come?
