Green fingers She had gardener’s hands never quite clean at the edges, the cracks, always dirt in between the layers of skin they took on the green of the leaves she clipped and the weeds she pulled. The brown of the soil washed off in the sink but the chlorophyll stain, more permanently inked, a determined tattoo, a visible clue to the labour of her afternoons. She swore by Atrixo but it never smoothed sharp creases on her index fingers nothing removed those thorns, pointed perfect for snagging a pair of tights new from the packet.
Emily Reynolds
28
