"A Sestina" by Anne S. Crossey

I thought this poem would be easy to write

But fitting it into a prescribed form

Proves difficult. I start to wonder

If I have made a mistake, fingers chilled,

Battling with a blank screen. Outside the beech tree

Stands skeletal and naked in the frosty morning.

Night’s velvet darkness washed away by morning,

Night’s womanly spell of black inks and stars that write

Of something other, evaporate softly, left behind. Trees

Creep out of the inky shadows, reassembling form,

Appearing and disappearing. Sharp ice-chilled

Grass, the crunch a wonder

Underfoot. Emptying the compost, I wonder,

If I might swim this morning

In the lake, wash away the last warmth of bed, the chilled

Water, leaving the night behind, to write

A new story, a new day, fresh clay to form

A new world, a bright new day. Outside the tree.

Winter left the green dress of the old beech tree

At her feet, brown crumpled leaves, she stands, a skeleton, a wonder,

An elderly clock marking the year’s seasonal form

Veiling and unveiling her green skirt, revealing her bones. January morning

She stands, a woman exposed. Write

Something of the magic, of the morning shaking off night’s chill.

The news of the murder of another young woman is chilling.

Life cut short, industry felling our trees,

The rage against women and nature, a rage that is written

In endless acts of violence, against women, against nature, I wonder

In the morning light of a January day, early morning, women mourning,

If we can ever leave that behind, ever imagine a new form,

The third millennium barely born and yet to take form

Bones of the 20th century crushed in the dark bloody earth chill

In history’s winter of our own making. The new millennium, a new morning,

Gnawed roots buried into the before, they tell us of the great world tree,

Battles of bored and tiresome giants, a sorry wonder,

Perhaps I am losing the simplicity of what I wanted to write,

About a January morning and the simple form of a naked beech tree.

Still and bare in the chill of the winter nights’ shadow, I wonder,

This morning, whether things can ever be put right.

This sistina was written on 13th January 2022 as the Irish news announced the death of another young Irish woman. Her name was Ashling Murphy, a 23 year old teacher, who was murdered while out for a run along the canal in Tullamore, Co Offaly. The Sestina began as a piece about writing about a tree but I couldn’t get this girl’s death out of my mind.

Anne Crossey is a painter and writer living in West Cork, Ireland. She recently received a Bursary from the Northern Ireland Arts Council and the Irish Writer's Center.