While others bundle and bunch
under umbrellas, shrug
into pak-a-macs and hunch deep
into their collars, their faces
scrunched, gurning
against the elements, she
pokes tongues
at raindrops and laughs
glitter from her hair.
In the UK we are used to hearing that “April showers bring May flowers”, an expression that apparently can be traced to its earliest known form – Continue reading “april”
with primaries taut, they finger-tip
the contoured air, screeching
a splay-tailed upward glide to peakthen tuck – dip – swoop –
and skim the puddled mud,
gape-mouthed and hungering.
It’s San José – St Joseph’s Day – which is Father’s Day in Spain, and a bank holiday in parts of the country. It’s also the day that the swallows return to Capistrano, which is why I’ve chosen to post this poem. (Or, perhaps, this ‘poem draft’.)
Continue reading “swallows”
Just a couple of hours to the east of us, in Madrid, the trees are already blossoming:
In fact, the blossoms are already shedding petals, which reminds me of Omar Khayyam:
And look a thousand Blossoms with the day
Woke – and a thousand scatter’d into clay
Well, we’ve reached the end of the month and the expression “February fill dyke” has never seemed more appropriate.
How March is to come in remains to be seen: last night, I thought it was going to come roaring like a lion, but today has been as mild a day as you could wish for. On a walk back from the village at lunch time I saw:
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.
Continue reading “mardi garden”
don't confuse the narrator 