The women stopped wearing make-up.
They didn’t bother with the office clobber,
heels pushed to the back of the rack as
flipflops and crocs came to light.
They became flat-footed, slow treading feet
spreading against the laminate, the stone,
the grass. Some days they didn’t brush their hair,
roots reaching up from within, dark and natural.
They immersed themselves in old crafts;
crochet, knitting, watercolour – leaving the phone
to vibrate in another room. They began to read,
knead, blanch, blend, stir, separate and taste.
They planted seeds and couldn’t believe their eyes
when a seedling broke the earth. Taking delight
as they watched wild birds peck, take flight,
a fresh green tendril in an orange beak.
They stood outside in the world and listened
for what seemed like
the first time.
Poetry
