Forty-One Poems

February, a walk round the Meadow I drag the day behind me A shaggy dog drenched and indifferent Whom the passing spoors will not call. Ducks move in a solider element Steer their wake in a neat cone. Collops of sky cloud and dither As the purposive 2s unzip. Wet tangle of driftwood Sticks in the throat. Rotted elms Like great tap roots wrong side up Question the mute thin elements. Morning clung to their furrowed ribs Mist left its moisture behind And the rain trickles down like sweat. The puddles are all sick, but will not Tell me why. Only a festering green A glow-worm in the narrow day Feeds on the tears. The patient geometry of the seasons Constructs a civil hoop to abide by. Meanwhile, the couple in front Snuggle and explore, even as they walk, A triangle on four legs. And as if on cue The gentleman on the bench tips his hat, The clouds adjust their position, count till Ten, then proffer a long finger of colour If not warmth, exactly as on TV, And the blue-jeaned quadruped lowers its head To enter the doorway the light stops at.