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There’s something about April -
the way she wears her clothes:
loosely fit. One button more
and September is exposed.
The veil removed, her flesh reveals
December’s naked trees;
Springtime lurks behind the bark
and drags me to my knees.
I kneel upon her dewy cloak
And make her moss my bed;
It’s time for me to leave this world;
another circle's thread.
An Albatross (hung round my neck
for years before this time)
has pulled my face down to the ground.
I cried [the perfect crime].
There's something about April -
the way she sheds her tears;
Smiling sunly through the clouds
before the gaps appeared.
The year which winds before her day
is pregnant in her womb.
The bed of roots beneath my skin
becomes my tendril tomb.
© 2010, Alan Morrison
This entry was posted in Poems.