Proserpine
She lands in April, like the eglantine,
and daisies flourish where she deigns to tread.
When apple-blossom blazes overhead,
I know the scented summer will be mine.
As jasmine and clematis intertwine,
and wine’s inclined to vie with sunset’s red,
my heart is full, and much that goes unsaid
must wait until new vintage weighs the vine.
For, when the river wrinkles in the chill
of obdurate October, and the mist
enfolds in skirts the base of Whitney Mill,
my love and I must cease to co-exist.
The crows cry from the stubble, sharp and shrill,
Like morning sun in twilight reminisced.
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