a poem for June

‘Green was the silence, wet was the light the month of June trembled like a butterfly and in the south dominion, from the sea and the stones, Matilde, you traversed the midday. You were loaded with ferrous flowers, seaweeds that the south wind torments and forgets, still white, shrivelled by the devouring salt, your hands

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a poem for May

The Trees ‘The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief.Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still

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a poem for April

Spring ‘To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It

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a poem for March

The End Of March ‘It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of

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