There's a big wind winnowing this Saturday -
rocks the empty algae-greened garden chair,
to / fro, feet lodged on uneven flagstones,
there,
as someone sat considering me.
Secrets balloon:
through clever cell, sap sings,
from narrow scales that overwintered tight;
pear bud canopies straggle feathers bright,
peek at inner buds hid within swan-wings.
Even the apple tree has let its scale-seal pass,
and pushes out pink twig ends as an offering
to the rain, drizzling warm,
lashed by and by.
Through this gasp-spattering blackbird ginnels* ring
sparrows bob, flea-hop, about the beading grass
as I were not there
- and, really, am I?
....................
*Ginnel is a north-country UK word for narrow alley - often between rows of houses etc. Tunnels or alleys of sound is my intention.
.....................................
Harrowing
The rain falling and the windows streaked
and my boots, smelling of wet-out,
waiting by the door
while I image falling like the rain
to the dead center of the Dantean earth
melting big, scaly Divil in his frozen hell
with sludging tears -
the tears that fell / shall fall
through all our yesterdays / tomorrows...
I may sigh now,
but rage again too soon enough -
so little can I change myself.
