The cats are twitterpated: lords and ladies
of misrule, they squeal like St Martin’s pigs
in their carnal carnival. Birds’ nests burgeon
in the hedges and, on the early apricot,
a choir of ruby buds swells, ready to burst
into scented song.
More “notes for a poem” than a finished poem, I think. And they were notes taken several years ago.
It’s shrove Tuesday today – mardi gras – but this year, the weather is so bad that the scheduled carnival procession has been put off until further notice, there’s no sign of buds swelling on any of the trees and I really don’t think the birds are thinking of nesting yet. The cats, however, have spent the last few nights yowling and yawling.
I don’t think I’ll do very much with these notes, although I do like the last two lines. Of course, the fact that “I like it” doesn’t mean it’s any good. As writers, we are told to kill our darlings, and that might include my darling choir of ruby buds of February.
It occurs to me I could do worse than give up alliteration for Lent, but I don’t think I’m strong-willed enough.