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Patrick Yarker

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Clean Into April

The earth opens like a picture book
and for a season I learn to read
gorse, narcissus, japonica,
bright pop ups for the dull student
Public Gardens baffle, even the ones back home.

My head’s grown urban, with an eye
for tube lines, rat runs, and now this new
development,
an autumn of cherry blossom in the bus lanes.
The whole thing troubles your dog too, like prowlers
or a thunderstorm, so that he whines all evening,

scampers through the flat and won’t be comforted.
Nights come tardier and lukewarm,
and in the mornung, yellow between showers,
a blackbird’s blade stabs all over your lawn.
It’s like bait-digging at low tide: the casts forked up,

yellow waders doubled at the crotch,
packed coily buckets. Upriver here
the arms of giant cranes have rigged themselves
way above balconies and leaves, and their hooks
rock coming down. How did they get up there?

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