Then the flowers opened their palms towards the nesting birds,
browning, warm, stuck with mud and pigeon down; he, the last,
remains wrapped in his Magdalene carousel. Twin forks of the swallow tail.
Motionless, same as the soft steps of the tawny fox – pacing upon typing
tippy-toes; ones we wish gone and away with the death of winter, but snub
our green-lit patches with tenfold cubs –
the blur of ice and the pond,
the bending of knees to meet the Buddleja, nature’s surreptitious bed-linen.
All around us now. Same as parched tongues and the wagging tails of bumble
bees, rotation, rotation –
and O how the truth of cold’s meaning sews it’s way through, when
fingers meet with the secret stowed beneath the soil: a black toothed comb
with the moon in it’s hollow; lost when the sky peached over and she threw her arms
towards the clouds, the ripe lamp of death lit under her feet, never again
to ask you of the bend of Orion,
nor a sip from your cup.
© Eve Redwater 2012
(It’s been a while, I hope you’ve all been well. University has kept me busy this week, so it’s nice to be back!)