Just because I read this poem by Jean Sprackland in the London Review of
Books, April 21, 2016, here’s an eloquent verse version on the above theme:
April
Jean Sprackland
machine of spring with all your
levers thrown to max
clouds in ripped clothes and sheep trailing afterbirth
where last week’s buds sucked blue juice from the dusk
now the branch is swollen priapic
cherry bling and hawthorn sex-bed smell
motorway hedgerows on thrust electric rapefields
clouds in ripped clothes and sheep trailing afterbirth
where last week’s buds sucked blue juice from the dusk
now the branch is swollen priapic
cherry bling and hawthorn sex-bed smell
motorway hedgerows on thrust electric rapefields
your levers are jammed and nothing
can pull them back
not now not frost not squall
city gutters clogged with blossom
muddy ponds spuming with cannibal tadpoles
the long blinding days your bashed clock
the violent small hours magpie clacking at the robin’s nest
not now not frost not squall
city gutters clogged with blossom
muddy ponds spuming with cannibal tadpoles
the long blinding days your bashed clock
the violent small hours magpie clacking at the robin’s nest
and us lying open-eyed all night
breathing in the white noise of pollen
hearing the long bones of the trees stretch and crack
wondering will you ever power down or is this it now
wondering what can any death among us mean to you
breathing in the white noise of pollen
hearing the long bones of the trees stretch and crack
wondering will you ever power down or is this it now
wondering what can any death among us mean to you
and will we make it through to summer or is this
it now
Next: Running for Your Life: Half Size It
