Poems

Ivan Head: ‘Boconnoc, Cornwall’, ‘Autumn Figs’, ‘Retinal Maps’

Autumn Figs My Autumn becomes a slow succession of ripening Figs, a hand reaching through bird netting and finding washed Figs in their skins as sweet to eat as the ripe incarnadine within. Two seasons in the red clay soil did all this; avaricious roots freed from the pot. And then there are long tresses of the Willow in the combing sun, and falls and falls of leaves from the Yellow and the Claret Ash. Much then becomes fruitful, composting at rest on the earth. If I could further unlock this, then I could track my soul from transience through…

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