POEM
BY DUDLEY POORE
Hot earth sucks the roses' spattered blood.
Thunder trembles over hazy sycamores,
seed pods fatten, grapes grow round.
In the weed-grown border flowers have stopped.
And all the sultry day, rose jar in hand,
up and down the garden walks
I have played June’s busy undertaker,
with cloves from the pantry shelf
embalming dead rapture,
ordering black gloves for Eros,
hiring the mourners.
Now disgust curdles my blood.
I will empty these rotton petals
where the rain's hobnailed boot,
and the cricket's delicate heel
shall grind them back into earth,
to learn of languid caresses
in the angleworm's naked bed.
Let these empty jars gather dust
beyond the groping hand of spinsterish years
on the highest shelf of my thought.
On the mellowed year lies fulfilment
like the down on a peach.
Do the months look backward?
Do the ripe pods regret their fulness?
Does the squirrel weep
when hazels grow sweet in frilled jackets?
I will turn my face with joy
toward the swallows' going
and the month of vintage.