ASH CATON

Topiary

To grip a river by the throat
And wrangle flailing hiss into a tower:
Here’s monument to waters
We always meant to swim.

To glass a golden hour
And scrape it daily over toast:
Here’s sunshine for the cupboard
Turning sepia at the rim.

To propagate a ghost
And hear his tinkered myth retold:
Here’s something out of nothing,
To testify our powers.

To shape an empire manifold
Of leafy cube and sphere:
Here’s the old unwinding adversary,
In steeple, screw and spear.