Worms
FridayAir has fallen from about a storm
And lies lazy about the crocus.
The breeze droops heavy the leafless trees
Deepening their lichen to dark felt.
Down the pink path, the clootie soil has them ousted:
Some fat and thin pearly pilgrims,
Lifting self from self to self by self.
They should be nervous secreted in the pink brick cracks
As if it were their habitat.
Saturday
It is all less drowsy; less wet threat.
Some dirt has dried more sandy.
And some frost remains in the shadows.
Their bodies are less camouflaged now:
The path is pinker, their bodies browner.
Picking out a sympathetic way is easier.
Caught panicked in their migration
By nature in its fancy – flippant caprice
From wet to dry and warm to icy –
They have withered to brown.
March 2005