February Poem

miro-le-potager-a-lane-1918

The Donkey in the Kitchen Garden

 

1918 – who knew that the trenches could still hold

such ripe serenity overhung

by sky harrowed with the ghosts of furrows –

waspish vapour trails yet to slice?

 

And donkey unburdened, unbloodied,

holding the world’s stillness in the hang of your head –

do you know that your time is nearly up, overtaken

by Fordsons and Fergusons and

dervish caterpillar tracks churning red mud?

 

White flowers, petals unfolded, exposed,

the whisper of a crop square-bashed into a cordon,

last year’s canes cut to triangulate and tame young growth.

 

1918, lead grey as November, glint with

the promise of a blue summer drifting by

under the buoyant puff of baby clouds,

short and as soon forgotten as donkey’s sneeze.

 

The Donkey in the Kitchen Garden

Joan Miró

1918

 

 

 

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