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SWEET FLAG

A single thread from the hem of her gown Has snagged, and now unravels; The fabric crimped and puckered Lifts to show her ankles. She tuts and bustles winningly, A dimple punctuates her pout. She bends in vain to smooth it out,

And he stoops to meet her, falcon-eyed And glowering. He glimpses the cleft Of her corseted breast, and breathes A scent of citrus. The hem has dropped By her slipper-sole; he grasps the thread And snaps it. A puckered leaf upon the floor Mirrors the crimping: beguiling flaw,

And beside it, a spadix stands erect. He smirks; she almost blushes, Then shuffles on to take her pew, The iris flowers and rushes Crushed beneath her velvet foot: They leak the scents of fading life. He turns, surveys his wilting wife.

He makes comparison, weighs up fate; At length, the service ends. Wolsey takes his jewelled hand, Shams obedience and bends His neck to hear the soft rebuke: “Candlesticks; Calamus on the floor!” He turns, and follows her out the door.

A single thread from the hem of her gown Has snagged, and now unravels; The fabric crimped and puckered Lifts to show her ankles. He crushes a leaf of Calamus; Its cloying leaves him cold. She lets it drag. Her eyes are fixed

On basket, axe, scaffold.

Source material: Acorus calamus, the Sweet Flag, is so named because its leaves are superficially similar to those of Iris pseudacorus, the yellow flag iris, alongside which it grows in marshy places and on the banks of rivers and streams. It is not an iris, however, but a member of the Araceae, and its closest English relative is the Cuckoo Pint or Lords and Ladies: a relationship which becomes obvious when Acorus flowers, since both plants have a phallic spadix. Acorus is an introduced plant, and was grown by the herbalist Gerard in his garden in Holborn. It became established in the Fens, and has since colonised marshy areas all over the country, although it is a shy flowerer. In the absence of flowers, the leaves of Acorus can be differentiated from those of Iris pseudacorus by their asymmetrical midrib, and by their tendency to pucker at one edge of the leaf, just like the snagged hem of a garment. Acorus was highly valued as a “strewing herb” – a plant which was strewn once a year on the floors of churches and other buildings along with others such as those of meadowsweet – because it has a scent reminiscent of tangerines when crushed. Perhaps the name “flag” is related in some way to the flagstones on which it was strewn. The smell is certainly sweet, but I find it slightly nauseating. During the reign of Henry VIII, Cardinal Wolsey was, according to Mrs Leyel, “censured for his extravagance in the use of this herb, which was very expensive because of the cost of transport.” My assumption that the smell of Acorus might have played its part at the first meeting of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn is of course pure conjecture, but not at all unlikely. See: Mrs C.F. Leyel, Herbal Delights: Tisanes, Syrups, Confections, Electuaries, Robs, Juleps, Vinegars and Conserves, London, 1937, p. 263; Geoffrey Grigson, An Englishman’s Flora, St. Albans, 1975, pp. 466-7; Richard Mabey, Flora Britannica, London, 1996, pp. 384-5. Poem by Giles Watson, 2009.