TUWL: ‘Weeds’ by Bev Clark

TUWL: ‘Weeds’ by Bev Clark

The Urbanista Writer’s Ledger (TUWL) is back with our first piece of writing for 2019. TUWL is a creative writing series that publishes original pieces from some of Liverpool’s most talented writers. All submissions have be original works and must not have been published anywhere else. If you have a piece of writing that you’d like to submit then contact us here.

This week, we have a poem from writer, Bev Clark entitled ‘Weeds’; a delicate mediation on vulnerability, resilience, survival and the struggle of reconciling oneself to a difficult and uncomfortable past. If you would like to know more about Bev’s work you can contact her via twitter here. In addition, if you would like to read more of Bev’s poetry then you can find her collections here.



The weeds in my garden

stand ten inches high.

They crept up on me

between a very dry July

and a wet, August Bank Holiday.

Seeping their little heads

through pavement cracks;

strangulating my bedding plants.

Deep down,

in the dark soil of my memory,

I planted those seeds:

festering deeds

I never believed

would show their ugly heads.

I spray the garden

 with “biological” poison

which, they say, will eradicate in time

but scrawny little memories

with jagged little prickles

keep scratching at the surface of my mind.

I thought, if I filled my garden

with beautiful, showy flowers,

there’d be no room for doubt, or fear or shame

but the stems are so imbedded

in the past, and so deep-rooted,

their tangled leaves are racing through my veins

and the poison is choking up my brain.

Not everything that grows is beautiful:

Sometimes the ugly stand tall, strong, proud:

shouting their audacious name out loud.

 I can only cower

in the shadow of their hideous honesty.

I should have been more diligent cutting down;

in pulling up their roots and hoeing out

each trace of fibre in the soil.

I should have paid attention to the past.

Instead, I let the sunshine do its worst

feed my fear and shame

then the summer rain refreshed my guilt.

 In its dishonest name,

 leaving the crumbling earth the blame,

uncovered those hidden secrets

I buried long ago

and so…

between a very dry July

and August rain,

my weeds sprout up

once again.

About Author