May
LEWLY
Buba Fett
They rise early, like just after lunchtime.
Their breath on the mirror confirms their existence.
They should rest a while, but today is crunch time
for a rhyme that stands between now and forever,
time to knuckle down to their monkey business.
They sharpen a quill and pause for a breather.
How well they remember those quarantined villagers,
nursing the plague and begging for aid
with pennies dropped into bowls of vinegar,
yet the suffering helps; when things get cosy a
sugary residue coats the tongue,
hence the grinding of peppercorns into Ambrosia. Late afternoon, and for meaning or moral
they stand at the window and gaze towards yonder,
at the forked oak or a bird in the laurel, but their compound eyes play tricks by the hundred:
in the clenched fist they notice the rosebud,
in the pretty rose they see Joe Bugner. They have pinned their hopes on the incidental:
the plums in the fridge are there for the taking,
as is a snow crystal. They offer so little, expect even less. A plaque on their houses
is ample reward for the years of fiddling,
for the ink stains on their big girls’ blouses, for shuffling, scratching, occasionally traipsing
up to the post box, for walking behind us
and pulling faces. Mimicking. Aping.
Their breath on the mirror confirms their existence.
They should rest a while, but today is crunch time
for a rhyme that stands between now and forever,
time to knuckle down to their monkey business.
They sharpen a quill and pause for a breather.
How well they remember those quarantined villagers,
nursing the plague and begging for aid
with pennies dropped into bowls of vinegar,
yet the suffering helps; when things get cosy a
sugary residue coats the tongue,
hence the grinding of peppercorns into Ambrosia. Late afternoon, and for meaning or moral
they stand at the window and gaze towards yonder,
at the forked oak or a bird in the laurel, but their compound eyes play tricks by the hundred:
in the clenched fist they notice the rosebud,
in the pretty rose they see Joe Bugner. They have pinned their hopes on the incidental:
the plums in the fridge are there for the taking,
as is a snow crystal. They offer so little, expect even less. A plaque on their houses
is ample reward for the years of fiddling,
for the ink stains on their big girls’ blouses, for shuffling, scratching, occasionally traipsing
up to the post box, for walking behind us
and pulling faces. Mimicking. Aping.
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