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Botany
Sarah Holland-Batt
After the rain, we went out in pairs
to hunt the caps that budded at night:
wet handfuls of waxtips and widows,
We shook them out onto gridded sheets,
the girls more careful than the boys,
pencilled notes on their size and shape,
then levelled a wood-press over their heads.
in dot-and-dash, spindles and asterisks
that stained the page with smoky rings,
In that slow black snow of spores
I saw a woodcut winter cart and horse
careen off course, the dull crash
of iron and ash, wheels unravelling4.
trying to divine the message left
in all those little deaths, the dark, childless stars.
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