Another coil,
a dead snake in a bottle,
along of other, blurrier jars
and book, behind them all, before the wall
on table corner, spine upright, end boards ajar,
pages taking in the air,
meets my gaze above the fridge,
father's enigmatic painting
where years before C's mother
put a face upon the bad news she'd had,
composed herself for the reconciliation -
neither too little, nor too late, C held;
and blamed time and irony (God?)
for curtailing such rewards of love,
and contrition (though maybe shade of death
did prod her mum towards proscenium frame)
professed herself after that trauma
atheist but spiritualist.
If I stepped out, the apple would
(though I've been so busy ingenious
finding places for books,
but hang on
I'll do it now)
so fill my nose with tickle
like a wayward ecstasy until I'm touching -
nosing petals in the dark, that yet loom
white and blush;
but yesterday
('Cuck, cuck, cuck!' - a pheasant down the lane)
I stood by forget-me-not blues,
breathing the reeking
green Alexander and white wild-parsley,
while above me, ethereal plum blossom
on long boughs, rippled in dusk breeze, raining petals -
and lilac swooned behind.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
