Lady April

Satin shapes sway inside her dress – green
as fern-fronds unfurling where she sits...
commas curling in the damp of the forest floor...
fingers the moss as if reading Braille...
as if, once, she were the swift, green slide
of the snake, or the whisper at the heart of
a blade of grass...the moon rising through trees...

a full bosomed Godiva, flaunting it for Love
Lies Bleeding and saffron-sprinkled lichen
for I see, only too clearly, how well she wears
the velvet coat of spring...a scarf, studded
with stars thrown over her shoulder...turns
to leave and the night inhales Noir – Coco
Chanel – Bells of Ireland, and the wind
blows diamonds.