The hollow cheeks of winter scantily cover
the skeletal lantern jaw of spring; bones
bleached white by receding frost are free
to begin their stiff rattle for warmth
and to generate the spirits who come armed
with bare bodkins. Spindled fingers, barer
than the twigs, mesmerise waves of air;
cajoling it, shaping it –
sieving from it whiter ghosts whose jangling,
laden necklaces jump up and down
to distract nature while they attempt to mix
together taboos with pestle and mortar
made from the wood of hardy grapevines –
its pounding fists crush green snakes with albino
to sedate her lust for colourful concoctions.
Meanwhile, the elixir created for the belly
of spring is fed intravenously – nature’s essential
essence and innate disposition doesn’t allow
for winter’s voodoo to dance past its time to rest
and it calls sap to rise, but not before
veins of ochre pump the hesitant glimmers
of warm sun to feed feathers on new growth –
the fair down worn by earthy women – dancing
to death storms under foot – mulching in croaking
remnants of damp and decomposing cloth.
The gaseous canary sings louder, happily shifting
its weight until coldness is gone
and its old clothes are discarded for new –
they are tossed into the fire; smells
from warmed bones meet a sky heavy
with murmuring, and amber sparks
hanging from its underbelly cling like
new born kittens from snagged cotton
waiting for a cushion – as time waits for new flesh
to stick to spring’s ribs. And, like the certainty
of kisses, sweet and plenty, winter’s stuff
will not endure the warm rains of its graven image
burning in effigy –
springtime’s triumphant rebirth
is the flame of winter falling as golden daffodils.
A gentle buttercup’s shining gift clings to the ceiling of my chin, lighting it up; igniting once again fragile dreams of a young mind with such a tiny fire – minute, but as golden as the sun’s aureole of burning fire. I wanted more suns, more planets, more chances and more hope outside of my back yard and the gentle, wispy tendrils of our Milky Way.
I want more than to see the slow weighty drip of bees in their search above the green inky nibs of grass and bare stems scavenging for tiny morsels of nectar; visions of their bare legs, blind like steel rims, coming and going, until they have almost vanished from wildernesses everywhere – the wilderness
beyond washed up cups and plates, ironically adorned with designer berries and rare wildflowers; together with the bees, our own are rapidly disappearing. From behind sterile kitchen windows, I imagine a phantom paradise, a forgiving universe –
tiny planetary nebulae: silky soft blues of Nigella – wrapped in silken veiled threads – the gaseous halos that hide her modesty inside a constellation of mixed blushes of red primrose, blinding, white light daisies and swirling lavender forget me nots with singed yellow starburst centres –
feathery fireworks pinned to deep inky blue skies and purple hazed clouds of Globe Gilia, ignited by Indian Blanket’s luscious rouged pinwheels; fiery, and tempestuous molecular clouds of maroon red clover in colonies of Musk Orchids’ subtle shades of soft outer edge to tame the wars set alight inside the firmaments of an abandoned circular soil patch – its circumference an orbit of neglect, but nascent.
Baby Blue Eyes and Blue Sage – sea of a tranquil moon’s clustered star formation will surround flaming burnt ochre Fox Cubs – spikes of their brilliance reach for us in stark, vivid long arms to fingertips’ casual touch; white noise shrieks from their centre – shouting life.
California Bluebell and Chinese Forget-me-not join hands to form new constellations, tossing flaming titian hair against its sky; new and exciting join the dots on the blue black felted boards, playtime of our children’s children creating a sky full of new ploughs or even dragons.
Orange Cosmos of Sulpureus their heads of daubing yellow to sea spun corals burn ornately. Supernovae remnants; remains rain down in tiny iris-like flowers of many rainbow colours – pink, yellow, purple, blue, white. A whirlpool of flare stars, contradictions and swirls mill around fluffy pink red giants.
Violet mauves and tangerines bleed into the whites of tall tubular guards, with golden throats. Clusters of Godetia’s satiny pink and magenta’s splotched petals form the soft ridges of my daystar’s fiery accompaniment burning outwards to meet the cooler buttercup yellows of simple wildflowers and timid flames of dreams.
On hazy summer days tall lupins will direct the traffic of bees that will come, and come again and remember that they can fly as near to my sun without fearful scorched glances from a flame haired temptress – a beacon in a circle of hope for a future.
In winter she will still be loved but missed until the mistress of such unveils and vanishes right before our eyes but not for a while, not until summer squeezes dry these last few rainy days.
In a lack lustre centre of sombre, ruddy black clay – the antithesis to my vision lays in the perimeter of drizzle welling up inside this fan fiction death star, dreary rainwater produces ominous shadows in dark wavering reflections – punctuated with ice pick rain drops disturbing silhouettes already snagged – they are caught on brambles before they are are even sewn
~ but for now I can still dream ~
of new rain – deep red from the blood of Mars, rains from the lilac storms bombarding the shaded evenings of Pluto – swept with perfumed gypsum – the sprinkles of planetary rings. Multi-coloured auras soften barbed swatches of crowns among sunflowers and honey rich dandelions – aglow, incandescent guardians – incense sticks lit with scorching rage to effuse sweet smells while camomile and chicory loosen the hinges of lost tastes and losing battles to restore our deprived senses.
A Woodcock’s magnificent hallowed call pierces this universe dream, seeping through the heaven’s heavy heave of tri colour combinations in the foliage surrounding and protecting our new life, increasing the chances of a new found hopeful existence amid celestial heads of blue cornflowers, the beaming bright yellow and red charms of wild poppies – all to tantalise the bees – oblivious to the importance of their function and place in our lives – helping to create new life, wherever that may be.