First flush of Spring
//// green
blooms in the arms of the trees
en masse, a cloud of
//// minty fresh
/////////////// newness

Life wakes one more
////////////////// time.

c. Kate Gough


my ink_


my ink Grows
in the deep blue Sea of
(V a s t, this)night,

sending roots
down deep, tendrils
up and out
— a r OUnD

in anticipation of the break
(ing of soil,) of dawn and
s w e e t a i r —|

but for now, Rest.

Satisfied in soily blackness; Rest,

swept by weeping curtains of —    —     —Rain
this night in the reservoir.



you see,

you must understand: a river
runs, maze-like
within my flesh– R – u – S – h
– e – S in, between, t Hhr OU
gH, over and around my

(–but not to bReAk–
capillaries coping, coping,
coping) with aged, Sorrowing Salt:
insidious. Deathly.

…vein-deep blue
is my color yet. and BlaCk…
like the night of a sightless embryo
adrift in a windless sea.



my ink Grows
with an Invisible
hue; its living color
fades into nightly

…feels like all the
growth is in

c. Mary Kathryn Gough
3/2/05 1.52 pm
edit: 5.13.06 10.36 am london
edit: 5.13.06 5.39 pm london
edit: 4.23.12 7.13 pm wales

Trees, UK

England’s predominant tree seems to be ancient,
lone, and singlularly knotted, with boils and
rough bark, straight and tall and massive, its
numerous small scrabbly branches clutching its
surrounds covetously; these trees hide much
and forget little.

Scotland’s predominant tree strikes one
as being various forms of straight, slim, tall,
and proud, both youthful and old, adorned by moss
or shivering leaves against a silver trunk, backed
by a whisper of complex color winding its way
through their masses over mountains.

Ireland’s predominant tree is a single, slight woman
perpetually facing a strong wind, hair blown back as
branches and moss, sorrowfully skeletal and delicate, one dot
in a wide green land– yet still standing, consenting
to be permanently shaped by constant, violent weather,
she endures because she has
no other choice.

c. Mary Kathryn Gough
May 2006; edit fri 17 feb 5.03 pm

*i had not travelled to wales at the time i wrote this. the welsh tree might be a colorful deciduous. if i decide, i’ll amend the poem.

Shroud *i.


The leaves’ backs are bowed
under the weight of an orphan
snow. Steadily, steadily,
a forlorn blanket hides the
bright greens and muted grays of
an accosted April night,
blustering acidly about the day’s
clean yellow tulips and
gracing sun-kissed surfaces with
abrasive white garments.

Appalled at the decay of Spring’s
burgeoning beauty, I see
Snow caressing tree-trunks : seductive,
consuming, unwilling to be
abandoned. forgotten. left

Her death-shroud touch darkens my sight
with the achingly slow weight of Sorrow, a stone
growing heavy in my heart: the passing of

c. Mary Kathryn Gough
May 23, 2005 / edit i: 7/19/05 / edit ii: 2/28/06/ edit iii: 2/27/11/ edit iv: 12/10/11
Shroud, Part One

Nature’s Marked

The tree outside my window
is mottled with rot, its green and yellow
leaves so lush and
vibrant with life now show
brittle, brownish black;

Nature’s marked
suicidal, burning holes in her own beauty,
wielding rays of sunlight like
cigarettes and crying spent leaves
like shivering tears dropping, dropping: {disappear}
Winter’s coming and she’s no faith
in the future.

Larger, ever larger
looms an inexplicable

c. Mary Kathryn Gough, 11/9/04 11.09 am