08 February 2009

Poetry is Hurried Thought


I turn from the keyboard,
sermon dressed like a turkey to cook.
Raw, clammy, pale and puckered,


And see a sunbeam coming through the sheers.
Two days of sun?
Both Above freezing?

Is this spring?
Or some cruel temptation
like Tantalus’ grapes?

Who cares?
After weeks of twigs and ice
Even the sight of grapes
is wine to a parched soul.

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