Spring stirs in her sleep,
stretches,
tentative tautness, this seeping skin,
this catch in the throat
too afraid to name hope
as predecessor;
life labours in a womb
swollen with the earth’s
heartbeat and
fed by soil’s
placenta. She croons in her dreams,
low mourning dove cries wrenched
from a heart full, overflowing
its banks; her sighs are the
wind in the pussy-willows,
her song the cry of geese on
the wing.
Go to sleep, my son,
the cold has come to stay;
dream your dreams of springtime sun
while winter has its sway.
Drift to lands of warmth and grace
while tucked in cosy bed;
my roots will hold your heart in place,
so rest your weary head.
Frozen in time,
on lay-away,
put on ice
for a sunny day;
suspended life,
temporal sleep,
a time to rest,
my soul to keep.
Mummified in icy tomb,
Petrified in snowy case;
Sleeping deep in winter’s womb,
Snuggled down ‘neath quilted lace.
Drowser, nap the cold away,
Tucked and bundled in your bed;
Dream of Spring’s approaching day
As fairer visions fill your head.
*
The irony, the irony! The common name of this plant? “Snow in Summer”…
Day is losing her grip on time.
Losing the battle , she closes her eyes
And, rubbing them gently with evening breeze,
She welcomes Dusk home, and drifts off to sleep.
Good night, sleep tight,
I’ll tuck you in by evening light;
The stars will sing your lullabies,
The moon will kiss your tired eyes.
Good night, sleep tight,
I’ll see you when the morning’s bright…
