May
A maiden aunt, who approached
Those dazzling heaps of white
As she crossed a field to the well,
Along a worn path
Her nephew followed in June
When the blossom was all over.
I fished obsessively in the river
And made her anxious. (She believed
That the big pool by the bridge
Had swallowed a coach and four.)
Now I’m on her track once more,
Waist-deep in rushes
To fill her white enamel bucket
And get it brimming back
To the scullery cold.
Loose boots across a concrete yard.
White spit of my toothpaste
On silverweed, confusing the hens.
A zinc mug dipped to rinse my mouth
And fill, and fill again with may blossom
Until the month runneth over.