She comes at last out of the night
That long and crushing night
She comes without the faintest hint of guilt ;
Nor remorse , but with a querulous eye she looks ,
You up and down , as if assessing you as a partner
She comes with the freshness of an opening bud.
She breathes her vaporous balm across the fields
And soothes and flirts the frozen heart of winter
Till it vacates the death - black clay .
And with her warm and coy embrace .
She pacifies the un-placated , still grieving weeping fields
She lifts the clouds higher in the sky
And she spins the sun ever upward in her elevation
And the birds are responding to her beckoning
As the go furtively about their industry in the hedgerows
Long awaited , and late as is the privilege of the bride to be
Fickle , erraticas the loose lover
Bashful, brazen, breezy all at once
But we lay the carpet of our welcome at her feet
And dare not say the whingeing whimper
Lest the Lotis nymph ,
Recoil before our personified Priapus
At last ,she’s come
And I’ll say no rueful remark
No . Not an utterance of the bleak dark she left
Not a thing , until I see the swan sit again
On her eggs beside my boat , and I know she’s here at last
And thank that little girl- saint; Bridget
Of the crucifixes made of rushes
And the Bardic harpsong , sings out
From atop the passage grave ,
And the wind is mollified by her music;
The dead Druids , too chant in harmony
All along the drumlins and the Hills of Clare .
And Spring is here at last.
© Copyright 2016 donkylemore. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Commercial Fiction
Poem / Flash Fiction
Essay / Memoir
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