Juno In Her Birthing House

Roof tiles flayed by a blunt
north wind;

a standpipe spews drain-water
like a Saturday night lush.

Upstairs (in her secret temple)
Juno sleeps on a silk birthing bed

her fiery womb restless,
echoing the unseen dream.

Cold fingers of rain entrance
the waking child -

a giddy winter song whispered
in a choristor's eaves.

Trees bend in the garden - gale-forced
into submission - press

against rain-leavened windows
eager to watch her swollen rivers break.

The child watches too, through his
translucent window of scented flesh,

reaches out to the green-stemmed bud
while his mother speaks in tongues.

"My husband is all at sea,
magnetised by a lighthouse beam!"

"My stethescope and ether are
stuck fast in winter's sludge!"

The storm electrifies - smashes
the harbour wall.

It is conductive, fresh-turbined,
illuminating the floating child.

Lightning strikes a chimney pot.
Thunder splits an unseen egg.

Her birthing house is a womb,
within a womb, within a womb...