March Stew
Mornings are littered
with gnawed husks,
charred mouse-tails.
March is burning its strew.
The limbless
braid a thawing earth
into knotty threads.
On wet lines flannel shirts
poach in a warming smaze.
while gust-hogs
still attack the hedgerows.
In coddled kitchens
muggy boiled cabbages
envelope
a pottage of sky.
Stubby snuffles
herald undertows
of new marrow.
April paddles in
with wet crumbs
and buttercups.
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