Out of the circle

Winter's ship has gone.
Soon men will light
a languid moon to hang
in this pale sky, and pound
the last snow into blood.

They kneel, and drive numb fingers
into the just raised ground
while their sons seek forgiveness
for love at twenty paces. Next year they
will pound and kneel again.

Meanwhile I follow the lure
of mid-morning sun
into orchards pungent
with rotten fruit and blossom, where snow
still melts to water.

Suzanne Aigrain, 2004