He gave me a gift of needles bound round in banana leaves, fragrant, folded in coconut wood. He came to me first in wafts of October storm, a hard-nosed North wind who sliced sideways at new growth, shook cone-buds, rocked me till, maddened, I smelt my own fragrance flying high around. I was lithe and high- waisted, but bent to his buffeting then, my limbs braceletted with lichen. His glance hurt me, ungloved my bark. The storm passed, returned, passed and returned when I was stronger, and I was pleased to resist him, standing tall.
Geraldine Clarkson lives and works in the English Midlands. Her poems have been published widely in journals, newspapers, and anthologies, including Furies: A Poetry Anthology of Women Warriors (For Books’ Sake, 2014), The Valley Press Anthology of Prose Poetry (Valley Press, 2019), and Witches, Warriors, Workers: An Anthology of Contemporary Working Women’s Poetry (Culture Matters, 2020). Her latest publication is a chapbook, Crucifox (Verve Poetry Press, 2021). Twitter: @GBClarkson.