Making a pig of myself, al fresco,
eating (outdoor bred)* pork chipolatas hot,
nothing to cool them on the way down
but hotter coffee - waft a hand
at my gullet like a wand
to magic-line esophagus,
glorious sun unfrontable,
but glance to catch the Aten, centered
in that wide, white flare
atop the tall thorn silhouettes
whose edges are dissolved in light;
and trickles down the molten mind
(sideburns, cheeks and jowls, sunbathing)
the robin's minute instillation,
pointillist ambuscade -
a Seurat metaled and spilled.
But when the pigeons settle in I find
myself still waiting in the void.
A rare gust shakes the whole hedge;
It nods towards me... or the mind nods...
and what is this implausibility
that bumbles through low air on resonance,
seeking what I cannot offer her?
Though so diligent in her inspection
along the hedge border
among the basal leaves of dandelions,
there is no flower, nor blossom,
for a queen of spring*
in her regal ruffs and puffed couture.
I've not even a pear bud sprung yet wide enough
to interest her;
though now I know
the weather willing - that's an if, is that -
she'll be there for the flower of the pear.
..........................
*That's what it says on the packet, you know.
*Queen bumble-bee.
