This spring is dour
it coats the tongue
a Scottish taste
that lingers.
Mist in the morning
too much moisture
swells joints
bleeds into my dreams
leaves me drowning.
You deftly net confusion
it swirls around you:
dust bowl eddies
that stick: congregate
in corners of your mind
where spiders play
at madness.
I stutter in dialect
the words slip like silver
the silver of this full moon
cold, hard, sterile.
Sun speckles river
the cow parsley sways
like wedding lace
a song, a poem, a dream.
The oak tree whispers
to the wind
asks again.
Why this?
Why this?
Victoria Mosley 