FORGET-ME-NOTS They’ve waited long to spring their traps on unsuspecting passers-by, these sleeper-cells that occupy the rubble, rust and rot across the street. Today, the plea of this abandoned plot is heard at last. Today, although habitually indifferent to every glimpse of heaven-sent or earth-erupting hues, the filing crowds can’t fail to turn their heads. They get me too, these fresh but achingly familiar blooms, these words I learned to love before I felt the meaning of their soft-yet-piercing phrase. They pour from every crevice now to paint the pavement-grey cerulean. The voice that taught me once, in slowly ebbing sing- song tones, to call each fragile thing by its distinctive name, and this that breaks to call me back, is one if not the same.
MAY The river, buoyant, runs the errands of a coupling season, calls each thing to take the plunge. We’re all invited. Sky in spate among the wading reeds, we reach its banks by kissing-gates and paths of root and rill. Within its depths of co-engendered bliss, its borrowed blue, where being is to see and to be seen, this greying willow, gnarled and stooped, may know itself as green. The bridge beckons. Two arcs now come full circle here, where mirrors mend the merely half by making ends and new beginnings meet. By crossing over, under vaults immersed entwined, our feet may tread, as one, a more- than-common ground; may walk, beyond the stiles and cattle-grids, those winding aisles where April’s gloom gives way to hedges hung with galaxies of bright and bridal may.
Daniel Gustafsson has published volumes of poetry in both English and Swedish, most recently Fordings (Marble Poetry, 2020). New poems appear in Ekstasis, The North American Anglican, Amethyst Review, The Brazen Head, Trinity House Review, and elsewhere. Daniel lives in York, England. Twitter: @PoetGustafsson