Coach House Spring

So, April’s here and it’s Spring.
(Though, of course, this poem’s penned in March;
Parish mag dead lines make such lies acceptable.)
Still, it is Spring, and erect lines of modified daffs
Do their gaudy thing while gates pop up
white on our green verges; just waiting for you to lean across
and tell us all the latest gos.
They stand, those barred gates, like the mothballed Blue Bell
a-waiting Summer heat.
….
And, as it’s Spring, alone I clean my home.
I stalk rooms flint faced with whiskey drinks, spotifying at will.
Filling the air of a large long empty house.
‘til I take an early evening bath & there,
Through the skylight, a glimpse of a cold-cratered
Crescent moon vying for skyspace with
Our milling factory’s luminescence.
I feel abandoned, lessened, smaller;
And Spring a distant song-filled dawn away.
Jim McNeill

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