Friday, 27 February 2015

Баба Марта/Baba Marta


Midwinter spring and sunlight strains
beyond terracotta rooftops: the year
is already poised in the balance

as if because we lack faith it would go,
become ceaseless cumulo-nimbus,
a drowning of prospects in cotton wool.

Except no. Because this is something
others have known from on old:
seasons hint and need placation

like unexpected loves which depend
on linden branches in a park,
like these assertions that all will be well,

like a ripeness and a readiness
which here, amongst the red and white,
I confidently thought to tell.



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