Poetry by Frances Boyle

            ​ Roman Boyko CC



​
Growth Rings 

A sapling sprouts from the slumped 
hollow, this rotting stump the severed 
half of a two-trunked oak. The tall twin 
that remains cradles the new. Sharp
scent like a snuffed candle end.

What centering can there be
if soil is sick, blasted with blight?
Tomatoes blacken, pulpy, inedible
—their ghosts inhabit the garden,
cling like a film upon our faces.

Spring-water is too cold, sideways 
through song it flows and chimes. 
The chill paralyzes, rings bitter 
and metallic against the vessel
be it crystal or hammered tin. 

An offshoot will thrive, shape shows
in shadows, curtained and low.
Is it safe? Stories at bedtime,
the task in the old tale—to climb
a mountain of ice-etched glass. 

​



Hearting 

White cairns mark each seaside
turn in these well-raised walls. 
I’m halted by washes of wind, 
tumble-fears, hesitate to clamber 
over. A compass rose blooms.

Fatigue blows like old petals, 
musty rose forgetful. I fumble 
through pebbles for soft fragrant
scraps. Stones still hold day’s
heat as evening cools sandy soil.

It runs through the funnel
of my palms. Stasis – I’m
unable to stay, reluctant
to move. Fearful of both
the settling and the speed.

Vacillation yields, in time. 
I can’t go on. I’ll shuffle off. 
Wind doesn’t hesitate, white-
hearted and reverent, it pelts 
me with spray, praises the day.

​



Glaze

You’ve had a miser’s rain          for us a philanthropy of snow
Ice is our residue        the bucked-up humps   a solid layer
thickening pavement so we walk        inches above ground
If ice is suspension        fire is thaw      and also consumption 

But what do I know of fire?      I’ve no need to chop wood
my hearth is just for heart-warming   the flit of flame 
an ornament     orange jewels gashing               into blues and yellows 

Phoenix spreads its wings        stretches its snaky neck skyward. 
Ashes / renewal / air too thick to breathe           Bright eyed      the bird
plunges its beak into my heart    extracts a sapphire    a semiprecious 
teardrop    cries a note so pure it melts the stone      Ash settles 

in a halo on your head     Ash that      as you remove your hat     reveals 
itself as snow     The moan of ice            thickening on the lake 
wakes me at night      with its misery



Note: The phrase “a miser’s rain” was written by the Australian poet Mark Tredinnick in an email to a workshop group he was leading.
​

​

Frances Boyle (she/her) is the author of two poetry books, most recently This White Nest (Quattro Books 2019), as well as Seeking Shade, a short story collection (The Porcupine’s Quill, 2020) and Tower, a Rapunzel-infused novella (Fish Gotta Swim Editions, 2018). A Canadian writer who lives in Ottawa. she has published poetry and short fiction throughout North America and in Europe and India. Recent and forthcoming publications include work in Best Canadian Poetry 2020, Blackbird, Literary Mama, Prairie Fire, Sheila-Na-Gig and Minola Review. Please visit www.francesboyle.com and follow @francesboyle 19 on Twitter and Instagram.

---