February And Beyond

Like a Ratchet... Pony Hair, Flower of the Cherry

Like a Rachet...

Like a ratchet when all is loosed
or hands slipping through a rope;
like an autumn image before spring
in the intake of an inspiration -
then the still sigh
while the sun asks gentle questions
to ascertain my fitness to represent myself
in the courts of Never, upon which we all wait.

The cutting wheel’s long syllables next door,
its lugubrious incantations, seem personal,
which in the sun’s eye is a tick,
in the side of my mouth, against me.

And the patterns in the table, the last layers
of varnish, lifting up into the wind’s crumbling,
remind me of Miro or Klee, the
innocence deep within my love I’m letting go
with the rest;
                       and yet maybe it’s these
I retain, in no drawer, but on the air for ever.

.....................

Pony Hair

Towards the end of February the sun
becomes so mellow suddenly the elephant’s
grey face and trunk and ivories are yellowed
lifted in salute towards toothbrushes in the jar.

So near and yet so far.
What is?
Everything, everything, all missing, all near,
save their toys they like to keep
the windows we look through
which are here,

like the tie we need
and the band for pony hair.

..........................

Flower of the Cherry

Old seeds hang fat and thick
and the catkins tails so wag;
the red surge on the verge rods;
late sun’s a golden rag.

What most makes my being sing,
like the utmost up to your’n,
is the flower of the cherry
and the blossom on the thorn.

..