Sunday, 3 June 2012

I smell blossoms and the trees are bare

     What is it that we’re supposed to be
     hoping for?

     There are no notes to hand.

     (I hear that back in the park
     they’re breeding courtiers at a rate).

The river isn’t a river;
it’s an accident.

     They did the best they could
     with what they got.

The kid on his tiny BMX, dressed up brash,
refuses the mysteries
with his thirty second stunt.

     Just to let you know,
     there’ll be birdsong
     at 5.37am.

     Do you ever do singing?

O what am I to you, sweetheart,
and, angel, what are you to me?


  1. The beautiful final couplet lives up to the extremely intriguing and inviting and confusing in a good way title of this one, WB.

    No refusal of song can ever have been more songlike.

    (That natural lyricism can be scheduled only in the natural world seems in some satisfying way almost natural, don't you think?)

  2. I don't what it is with me and the titles from popular song.

    You're spot on about natural lyricism. I love those scrappy little tidal charts you used to get in seaside towns; another lovely lyric turn. I don't know if they still do them.