Day Dreaming
I close my eyes
and listen
to the first sounds
of spring.
I close my eyes
and listen
to the insects.
I hear their fly past
and their warm settling.
Sometimes they will alight on me
as if they wish to examine
this strange creature,
this lone interloper
in their world.
I open my eyes
when I feel them
so that I can admire
their beauty
and strangeness
before they move on,
flying
or crawling
and leave me alone again.
May Queen
They crowned her the queen of May,
the little girl.
Chose her for her purity.
Pure and white and smiling.
Unblooded.
Golden curls
held by red ribbons,
and entwined with flowers
topped with sweet smelling may.
Spring is here,
you see.
New shoots springing into life,
so we’re ready to be
reborn and ready to play
the game.
Ready for the circle.
Ready to go
round and round again.
Like the dancers she watches
weaving their ribbons round
the maypole.
The maypole phallus they’ve planted
in the ground and
bedecked with ribbons.
Red and white.
Red and white ribbons of menstrual blood
and semen.
Round and round
She watches from her throne.
Round and round.
Then come the Morris Men.
Bells jangling their presence.
Sticks clashing with their power.
Flags waving
to announce
their virility.
They crowned her the queen of May,
the little girl.
A crown of sweet blossom
and hidden thorns.
First Published by Community Arts Ink, Reclaiming Our Voices, 2015
To The Passing Of The Nightingale
Where are the songs of spring?
Aye, where are they?
Well, Mr K,
they are harder to find
than they were in your day.
Gone with the nightingale,
Gone with the meadows,
the hedgerows,
the woods,
The habitats lost,
destroyed.
Destroyed like the food
that people call pests.
Predated.
Predated by farmers,
one way or another,
the countryside’s guardians,
that’s what they say.
The spring singing has ended,
almost over and done.
Aye, you might well ask, Mr K
The singing is not as it was
in your day.
First published in Anti Heroin Chic, August 2017
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