March 07, 2008

To Chaucer

When March pierces the cockled veins of December

funnels through the dry cool of sleeping volume with honey saliva,*

swells the lank roots into damp ground,

washes out old deaths with its clear liquor

forcing seeds to tipple life through cracking shells,

when the wind stops his hacking winter coughs,

his breath full of warm green babies,

sighing in the copses, gossiping in the mosses;

when the young sun glows through wafer curtains at 5.30am,

and her grandfather matadors bow to the victorious

Ram who trots along their spines with a snigger,

when little flautists pounce and skim new foliage

improvising melodies that steal the heart of nature, and my own –

it was then –




(*OR funnelling its honey saliva into the dry cool of sleeping volume,)

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