Old Hate and old Love take longer holidays.
I see them sometimes in between the stun
of passing blossom trees in full five D
(the in-held breath when heart beats hard
as glorious parallax - twigged revolutions pass
the waxwork of each flower spun time crafted)
and old green-head recalls the wet of tears;
then chest jolts (Clear!) itself to (Ha! Ah!) breathe again,
eyes see unfamiliar hands upon the wheel.
They are out there toddle-doddering along
with two long sticks apiece, marking old cairns
that farmers razed along their old straight track,
dowsing for hidden streams by twisted thorns;
they know their water tables off by rote.
But when I'm on my own again a while, weekdays
doing that midweek time, always the worst, tha knaws,
they ring my bell again and tap my cold porch panes
waving their leaflets for the twin parishes
of Persistent Sorrow and Dogged Recrimination.
'I've fallen out of my old lost love now,' I say,
'and let my hate drift off some ways away.'
Old Love tightens jaw, looks me through the eye;
old Hate stoops mock bow, holds a wink at me.
Oh they still know how to weigh a lie, tongue cheek,
shake their white haired old heads, ruefully -
and let me be
this sweet-fluted cool of April evening.
..............................
The Media doesn't really cut it for seeing the detail - but (Wow)! there are lot of blossoming trees there - wherever it is.
