‘Three white butterflies to know you’re near…’

‘Grandfather please stand on the shoulders of my father while he’s deep-sea fishing’ – Lana Del Rey, Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd (2023)

I try to

smile sweetly

at April,

but my teeth

hurt.

I force myself

to consider

the miracle

of primroses

that scatter

the churchyard

wantonly;

but I hanker

for the crows

and their inky capes.

I grab T.S Eliot

in the morning;

pick my skin;

mangle my words;

then accidently

smashed the

almond blossoms

on the floor and

cried.

A month begins

with the

interplay

of shadow and darkness

under relentless

grey; the new

Del Rey album

knows.

I asked to

see, hear and know;

all I received

was the same old puppet

show and I

feel all the

ways I don’t

live up to the sun.

Today, I keep it small:

there’s nothing

much to do

except to give thanks

that I have a plot

safe enough

soft enough

to wait this out;

let woundedness have her moment,

her head between her paws,

her sighs reverberating

off the wardrobe;

compassion whispering reminders

through the blinds,

of the hallowed blue sky

as the wheel

it turns, it turns.

*

Then,

there we were

singing

‘Under the Bridge’

in murmured

unison.

Magnolia! Magnolia!

And our laughter

recalled the

sunbeams.