Fuzzy, buzzy bumble bee
bumping against my door,
Queen of the Lea,
You are too early.
It is March,
though the buds show their face
like grotesques on church stone
and blossom flies with magnolia leaves,
the lamp of the evening sun
on her flock of clouds
and in the heart of birds,
the blue crown sinks
into the fiery glass of the river,
sorrowful eyes fall across the battlements
over filigree of sleeping tree
the shade of leaves and tall cypress.
It is March, your Highness,
and we still sigh and dream
into swaddles of sickness,
still burrow in our heads.
Yes, Christmas was an eternity ago,
January, a sandwich hastily taken
but the sweet earth smell,
the camphor of cut grass,
the bolting horse that chases the light,
the warmth – the warmth?
That rising ship, moored on the windowsill,
that joins a garland of words from door-to-door
and echoes between seated colleagues, fan blades,
yes, the warmth – we’re not ready
to feed on grapes,
hold the trophy, dripping jewels,
pages and pages
of children books
chased by cats and strewn through skies,
paper boats on shimmering lakes,
and hard, hard earth,
twisted grass and paths surrounded by long grass.
Though the light rests on the arm
the wind squirrels across the parks.
We’re not ready to count daisies
on slopes and buttercup fields,
the panting crows and the dog relieving itself,
yapping horizon, arc of the tiny sphere
and a streak followed by slow steps,
a shadow whilst the leaves cry, wring and whisper
under the warmth – the warmth?
Yes, the arm around the shoulder
from the skies.
We’re not ready to break glass
splintering kites across the empty streets,
to breath fields and forget them
in the path that goes straight
but somehow returns
the pulse of the sun, in the West.
The Church empty,
the body fed.
Where are you buzzy Bee,
mother of the drove?
I listen for you
but only see white walls.
The window is open.
Perhaps, you have gone.