Ides of March
such a heavy sky. pregnant with clouds, their water
burst and spilling in torrents. I feel them rest their weight about
my shoulders. my head envelopes in the fog of their birth dreams.
green, thirsty, drinking in rain. bountiful and unexpected
as manna in the midst of desert snow. the railing rust sports its
best rouge, revived. the iron black shines, like a poor man wearing
second-hand worsted, knees and elbows wearing thin.
pre-natal Spring’s rehearsal. everything rain-swept
clean. birds gargle the falling pollution, clearing their throats.
trill in feather-draggled chorus. tires in the street swish undertones
of whispered promise.
grey light. grey sky. grey benediction. greyed-out,
receding snow. grey brown black piping sparrows. wet black of road
and trunks and rusting iron hew relief. festooned with dripping green,
visibly rising, sap and all.
yet my head bows, brow furrowed by the ploughing grey.
such a heavy burgeoning. a pregnant sky gives birth to pain, as well
as life. its burden falls, sets its crêche between my bleeding eyes.
it feeds. I wither.
grey etched in black with little green. not everything
of Spring is wonder.
blue, I wish for gold-shot colour and release
© 2001 Peter Geoffrey Hynes
