On spring

[c/o Pete; a week late…]

Poem for Good Friday
— D.G. Jones

The green of the cedars is unlike
Any other green — they have been washed
By the wind, which now moves the clouds,
Piled like craggy props for Easter,
Into another part of the sky.
There will be no more snow.

The yellow of the starling’s beak
Is like no other yellow — it neither
Gleams nor is dull; it proclaims
The late sunlight against the certain black.
There will be no suffering and no joy,
Only these two colours on a bruised sky.

The leafless branches of the trees
So proliferate against the broken clouds
That every twisted crucifix becomes
Only a limb. This is the earth where once
Men hung a man called Christ
On two planks. The starling drops in the wind.

The bottom of a pail is broken through.
An ancient house has gone to ruin.
There are no more metaphors, only
The green of the cedars, the yellow
Horn of the starling’s beak, each
In the wind a part of April, now.

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