A mind of soft things

Give me again

a gentle brown eye

and a mind of soft things

 

solemnity,

a grave purity

 

Joy sloshed around in his boots

(he left it twinkling on the garden path like a slug- trail in April)

It glistened in his whistle

on his books

his pen

glasses.

 

Joy was also in the cotton sun

spilt by Morning

when she tip- toed in

to peer

over his shoulder and watch his fingers.

 

Joy did not often send him giddy

but sometimes it would leap inside him

like a trout and he would do the tea-towel jig

and dance with me on his feet

 

Give me again

a walk with two jumpers on

clouds

golden gilt promised me

they’d been sent by spring

whose blossom army swept from

the eastern face of the hill

 

i heard a blackbird’s bugle call and saw

the sun leading a charge

surging like mercury

and the sky heaving the last light

from it letting it slip all silver

into six o’clock’s cold arms

 

the wood quickly buried what the sky gave it

and the light returned to the earth

waiting in the sleeping snow drops

brave in dreams of summer’s might