Slowly The Silenced Soil Awakes

Slowly the silenced soil awakes
In great uncoilings of morning;
With heated blades their gas escapes,
Funneled from a foreign space,
A foamy, loamy environ
Beneath this heathy earth
Where truths are boiling in cauldrons
And with sediment recoiling.
Up here, for now at least,
Cold air, hoar frost,
Joggers puffing underneath
Skies as thin and grey
As dreams in a mute swan’s fleece;
Dog-walkers convene
With latent conversation,
Still wearing knitted hats,
Last year’s scarves
And woollen gloves,
Their feet patting paths
Like rain-charming starlings –
Only, the worms that emerge
Are solemn words reverberating
From our lost and lonely interred,
Their vapour trails rising
As blinding reminders;
The weeds and moss
As speechless as froths
Of periwinkle –
Embosser of Murderous Time –
And snowdrops huddled
Within a darkening corner,
Nervous, fragile ambassadors
Held fast to those Masts of Time;
Spring’s contract is unfettered
And these vernal lows are bettered;
The Goddess of Dawn stretches
Indolently, and is yawning
Before her audience
Begin their eternal dance.

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