Pale infrastructure, lily transient, spotted brown
stamens shafting proud in animate sculpture
bluebells thirsting from a leaf strewn green,
grass in patchy outburst, sprouting like an old man’s beard
wisteria unfurling into powdered coiffure
fecundity of spring.
“I, you, me,”
I conjugate the alien verbs,
they never made much sense and now the sense is less
your heart is palpitating fullness, thrown across a table
scrambled into bed and I recoil like amputated mother
hand protecting nest, where the silence rests.
A hover bee hangs over me, he looks,
then pollinates whichever colour suits his dream
grey doves are fluffing out drab feathers
and I, surrounded by white Marguerites, succumb to softness
feel the nestling of green leaves breathe the tartness of the year
beat my head on borrowed bush keeping cardboard distance.
“I, you, we,”
the moment shouts again for truth,
my clematis wraps me in dark tendrils
the peace lily’s falling short, and what I need to say
may vanish into May , the present tense of amore
with April’s spattered shades, the, ”so sorry I don’t love you” final mores.