Wednesday, 30 March 2016

The Jays

within the Discovery tree
can only be glimpsed by and by
by such Norfolkian souls who
habitually lift up their eyes
above the tallest head-height through
which Dutch weavers’ brick gables rise;

where—in this blessèd instance—two
jays blend in, like excellent spies,
in blossom that’s actually snow—
without a need to scream or fly;
spring having sprung any old how
upon a pungent northerly:

the freckle-faced clouds fast forward
at this time of day: two odd shoes,
absorbing scents of applewood,
hunker down with a stash of booze:
Dad clears his throat because he should,
’cause he’s always in on the ruse.

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