The ache, the ache of existence: winter’sStupor irresistibly shaken, old bones
Groan, dry boughs stretch, splitting bark, shedding splinters:
Fecundity ignites in roots and cones.
Dawn light prises sullen sleep; tits and finchesCall greedily, bullying the early growth,
Ignoring winter’s shrunk fodder which pinches
The gut. Lichen bulks up like simmering broth.
Oh, but sinews are stiff, flesh grey, its sapBarely moistening this slow cold body, galled
By the tug of procreation yet, hands in lap,
Stranded by lethargy, coffined and palled.
The air is lethal, unlocking its grip,Swelling in warmth to bamboozle the fox
To break cover, the shambling hedgehog to slip
From the kerb, its blood stippling the road like pox.
Reversals are abrupt and perishing;Viscous fog plasters the sun, throttles crisp shoots;
Puce morning winds curdle the sky, punishing
Shaven cheeks, wan fingers and thought of fruits.
Regardless, the brawn of being explodes;Every night lithe stems and tendrils seize ground;
Stubborn leaves unwind from a tangle of woads;
Forsythia leaps at the low clouds like yellow sound.
Remorselessly, blood thickens: hide-scarred menIn anguish must forage, fight and build. Again.
====================© March 2012