Not in January, not November, but May
when the world bursts open, delirious
with light, larks and cow parsley,
green whispering lust at your neck.
That’s when death can be buried
in the dark damp soil to spell itself to seed.
Give in to animal oblivion
to elm leaves new and butter soft,
bluebells ringing out relief in wet woods,
that braggart blackbird
syruping the night with song
from the aerial above the tan shop.
Yes, I could go when blossom
is shaking its final blessings
all along the Lewes Road,
when the chestnuts by St George’s
brandish their candles
and the sea is turning turquoise.
May is the month to admit the end,
pack up the Earth in verses no one
will heed. Let’s get holy one last time
kick wild in city parks that stink of garlic
pretend it all rolls on without us
and call the crows to serve last rites.