The budded brush of bare trees thickening
grey textures in white mist that wants to shine
suffused with brightness at the brink: -
'Let there be... Let there be...'
There will be.
The wheels roll out their mantras on the way to Stoke -
but a dome of fur by the central barrier
lies nose to tail in brutal quietude -
fur ruffled by the passages, galleried in mind;
and then...
But what's that struggling in fly-by
flapping so fast with progress all so slow
above the trucks that lumber their downdraft?
A blackbird with thick twig that's twice as long
as he is.
Some bloody massive construction job!
Headed back. 'Thou met'st with things dying.
I with things new born.'*
I quote it casually
to those recurrent hitchhikers, Woden and Frige*.
Woden blows his horn, 'Spring Symphony'* style
while buxom, flaxen-plaited Frige, tight leather
trousers creased 'all roads leading to Rome'
lazily says, "Have a daff, do!" offering one, and
certainly the islands of the roundabouts are shining
with ruffled nodders trumpeting the sun.
A dislocated minute and I feel
the road to Bentley's paved with gold expectancy
from happy days beyond three years ago
(but this time, as the pang of C fades out
and buzzard sails above a tree-lined bank),
almost
as if I had the capability to be happy again.
.....................................
*Quote from Shakespeare's 'The Winters Tale'
*Woden and Frige - Anglo Saxon god and goddess couple. Re my long poem 'Beyond'
*Benjamin Brittan's 'Spring Symphony'
