Spring Poems

And so, the woods, are green, and the green, is wet and savoury 

like the inside of a mouth.

That wetness, the damp silence, that follows it, and I am picking nettles

hold stems in my fist to shake off the rain. 

Though I am still scratching the insect bites at my ankles...

Though Love is thick and stalky, like rhubarb. 

And God is growing 

pink and strong

under an upturned bucket

becoming 

something other than God, becoming

A drone, that runs, from my belly, to my chest, to my lips, to my hands in the mud, to the mud, to the tip of a grass blade, to the stretching sweep of the field, out into

  the gnawing 

flesh of the air 

There are a hundred ghosts to every square mile, a thousand to every inch, and oh, 

here it is,            

  a baby lamb,           its small, hollowed out body, leaving an indent in the clover,     something must have come for it in the night,    so,        it is so soft still,    I walk around it and          it is so soft still,      

             and somewhere far away its mother must be calling out for it   

but there is no sound here

If I was to put my hand on his back…

The wave breaks and doubt curls firm and fleshy inside each muscle and oyster

hardens their shells like china tea sets. 

I lay my dreams out to dry on hawthorne bushes, the air is cool and full of rain, 

may is a muscle reflex, and 

under a grey cloud my dreams are drying. 

Are you standing here too with your feet in the grass?

We must wait here now, for a little while, and listen.