April Rising

“April is the cruellest month, breeding
lilacs of the dead land, mixing memory
and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.”

In the first flush of dawn –
pads across the veranda...
her bare feet blue with cold;
a mist of grey between
the budding branches.

A snakes-head fritillaria
shudders in a cruel,
north-easterly wind
as sunlight hits the roof
of a lichen encrusted,
dilapidated, greenhouse;

it wasn’t always that way –
not when ‘he’ was around,
as ghosts of the past
dog her – one step behind,
reflected in its misted,
half-blind eyes.

How she hated April; tore
its pages from her diary
and the calendar – hangs
on the kitchen door.

Her nightgown flaps
around her legs – a no-hope
bird with a broken wing
trying to take flight.

Deep inside her,
something burns –
a searing, white heat,
as does now the frost –
prowls the hillside;
breathing a kiss of death
on the rose – bloomed
too soon.

Tears at her neck...
falls to the ground,
a broken string of pearls;
his gift to her that morning –
one year ago. And pearls,
always did, become her so.