There’s too much dawn

by kvennarad

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There’s too much dawn, far too many bees,

for me to write about love, the damn terrain

where I lost one boot, my mind, and several

pounds; spring, you see, means hacking at

the weeds again, more time for the new light

to show the awfulness that winter hid away;

we come too soon to Easter, pain, but you,

you, you – the word hammers in my head,

what more could spring reveal about you

than the stuff I’ve tried, failed, to conceal –

and funnily enough that says more about me

than you; so here I am, my arse cold, numb

from sitting on a rock, me refusing to get up,

and love, that old bugger, like your present

image before my mind’s eye, like self-rage

and laughter, joy at dawn and those bees too,

yeah, love, staying, not going anywhere, eh?

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©Marie Marshall