Grief itself gives no more license
to a drunk than rain gives dust,
emnity its spitting distance,
trellising convolvulus.
Skirting consecrated woodland
drink now helps him loose the plot
where her turnip heels, he fancies,
drum, unhinged, against wet rot.
Foxgloves make their sly exchanges,
Queen Anne’s Lace waves its goodbyes,
ivy wrestles Lords and Ladies
into ditches, damselflies
dressed in finery for slaughter
hover over poppies sown
wild to bleed through Lady’s Bedstraw
cuckoo, linnet, thrush have flown.
Shaking rain from yellow rattle,
collaring its brass-necked dawn,
Sunday flourishes dead nettle,
roses barbarous with thorn
trained for her side of the story,
dogwood skewered where it bled,
bindweed choking morning glory,
dandelion called pissabed.
