Poetry from The Literary Review
The Freshet
EDWIN MORGAN
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Will you not brush me again, rhododendron? You were blowzy with rainwater when you drenched my cheek, I might have been weeping, but was only passing, too quickly! You were so heavy and wet and fresh I thought your purple must run, make me a Pict. You made yourself a sponge for me, I got a shower, a shot, a spray, a freshet, a headstart and then I was away from you. I can't go back. I can't go back, you know, retrace my steps, tilt my other cheek out like an idiot, stumble purposefully against the blooms for another heady shiver. I want it though! One day when I am not thinking, walking steadily past house and garden, measuring the traffic lights, you will reach out, won't you, at a corner, toppling over railings just to see me, crowd of mauve raindrops shaking and bursting, mauling me gently with your petal paws, shock of the petal, shock of the water, I am waiting for that, out of I don't care how many pavements, black railings, and the darkly breathing green. |
