Howard Wright
Apple Blossom
Bags and bundles of it, babies delivered swaddled in it,
you left the sunroof open all night and got confetti in your hair.
Not the marrying kind, you hoover the car, then turn the hose
on your head. The babies will come along wherever you are.
You use an Old Wives’ Tale, some homely Feng Shui. You go too far.
And next morning the roads are closed by it, tour parties marooned
from the Bann to the Blackwater, The Birches to the border,
petals from all that pregnant hawthorn, these dandelion clocks.
Page(s) 43
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