MARCH
The
ache, the ache of existence: winter’s
Stupor
irresistibly shaken, old bonesGroan, dry boughs stretch, splitting bark, shedding splinters:
Fecundity ignites in roots and cones.
Dawn
light prises sullen sleep; tits and finches
Call
greedily, bullying the early growth,Ignoring winter’s shrunk fodder which pinches
The gut. Lichen bulks up like simmering broth.
Oh,
but sinews are stiff, flesh grey, its sap
Barely
moistening this slow cold body, galledBy the tug of procreation yet, hands in lap,
Stranded by lethargy, coffined and palled.
The
air is lethal, unlocking its grip,
Swelling
in warmth to bamboozle the foxTo break cover, the shambling hedgehog to slip
From the kerb, its blood stippling the road like pox.
Reversals
are abrupt and perishing;
Viscous
fog plasters the sun, throttles crisp shoots;Puce morning winds curdle the sky, punishing
Shaven cheeks, wan fingers and thought of fruits.
Regardless,
the brawn of being explodes;
Every
night lithe stems and tendrils seize ground;Stubborn leaves unwind from a tangle of woads;
Forsythia leaps at the low clouds like yellow sound.
Remorselessly,
blood thickens: hide-scarred men
In
anguish must forage, fight and build. Again.
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© March 2012