Before I was bad

Before I turned bad,
memories of paradise.

Willow-tree creek, undammed.
Steel buckets, inched with ice.
The velvet and scent of fresh goat.
Kittens I briefly adored.

Driving home with dad
in the LandRover—from town,
rabbit pee soaking my jeans, and
that truck smell—vinyl, grease?

Shinning the old oak.
Blackberrying, then
the jam, still hot,
with Meadow Lea, dripping.

Miniature worlds at ground level:
sawdust and wood chipped from notches;
layered rock and sheep teeth for
makeshift crockery, dirt dentistry;

grape hyacinth under gnarled plum, apple;
the first metre swarming with hoppers;
next, a butterfly disco;
above these, blossoms, fruits.

But now that I’m bad,
and the old oak is dead,
the minibeasts fled—

there’s play
for nuance.

Photos are of the author and her family, from 1970s slides, courtesy of Linda Dunk; photography by Lyn Dunk
To watch a YouTube of this poem being performed, click here

Also published on Edge of Humanity online magazine, October 2024:

Before I was Bad