After days of mock house-arrest, escape!
Just a little outing for lifeless legs,
A trip to the Common and the bottle bank.
There, the clanking of empty bottles: white, green and brown,
Bottle after bottle bursting like a falling chandelier,
Gives physical release, a culminating peace.
Stick in hand on Kingshill Common I commune with clouds,
Fix starved eyes on tiny white daisies leaping from close-cropped turf,
Press painfully towards the spreading chestnut tree,
Its white candelabra clustered in Pentecostal praise.
Tongues of fire release the long lost language of love;
Who can gainsay that May is lover’s month?
Now that old familiar May breeze blows
Cool, as I nuzzle month’s-name blossom.
Its fragrance blows from cargoes of years,
Carries me, a pygmy lithe and limb-swarming,
To that nose-nestling time,
That bumble-bee pummelling of may.
A smashed bottle can shatter the weight of weeks,
A petalled spray confirm time’s lie.
Now the felt moment spells it out:
“All shall be well” though reason cannot tell.
Even as the heady scent slides from grasp
I need no fear of loss in its lingering.