A gardeners wake

Not a word spoken.
Hidden by the heft
of tight drawn curtains 
and a pearlescent pane.

Coat of dream slivers 
and nascent nightmares
make blinds. And hides
a ruined view of Eden. 

A small paradise 
he sold his sweat to.
To be a willing slave 
to each inch of ground. 

Each hand of hazel hedge 
wears crude his crimson blood, 
each sod of soil turned, 
raw blistered fingers. 

She’s no lithe lover 
that jolts old broken bones, 
drags blue bleary eyes
panting into predawn.  

A slip of ice chilled cuff 
or cold hoary hand, 
draws back bold black blinds 
and bright, cuts predawn dark. 

Her daisy day displayed 
in sound and silver sight, 
through smog smeared windows, 
she shares a framed triptych. 

A morning magpie speaks 
in blunt saw bone tones,
gloats at all that glitters 
in making his morning. 

His clicks, raw rasps 
a birds sad soliloquy. 
What of this season’s chicks,
and crows and things that grow? 

Of moody morning mist 
or streaks of slanted rain, 
that calls vine weevils 
and wine wriggling worms. 

The dazzle of dawn 
across the fading face
of a pale pink-washed 
translucent, tardy moon. 

A woodquest’s chest swells,
vibrates to coo and call. 
Tongued in tender tones 
You-hoo-i-love-you.

Remembrance and rejoicing,
he has no other voice 
to tell the morning 
world his want and wish. 

He asks why doe and dove
are prettier than he, 
that preens his silver sheen, 
of rainbows red and green. 

An Elder nymph weaves 
fluid hypnotic dance 
her charms click and clack, 
on light southern breeze- 

She waltzes to the wind, 
Her rind of goose bumped flesh 
vibrates in trembling. 
Kiss of rain ignites desire. 

She curls her feather tips 
to drink her lover in. 
Her pleated petals part 
to take his soaking seed. 

The hunger and lust
an act of prayer.
Dawn paints tarnished rust
inside her emerald lair.



  -Dave Kavanagh

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