the madrigal, volume iv
by phoebe kalid
Ever my favoured morning lark, you walk barefoot among
The grass, encumbered by sleep’s dogged grasp
But stubborn still, devoid of farce,
To call upon one lonely thrush: ‘Fill your small lungs
With spring’s sweet musk. Remind Earth of its mother tongue.’
As his song blooms among the brush, an oak tree—ancient, woeful—gasps,
‘So silent was the world before she held us in her steady clasp!’
How nonchalantly you conduct the day’s greatest phenomenon.
Don’t look at me. I am half-made, I’m hiding
From your fervent gaze as an old hare from starving dogs,
My limbs as stiff as fallen logs, yearning for winter’s chiding
Sting to shroud with frost my fear-soaked trace, to draw thick fog
Across my lair and freeze this fickle heart in place. I’m finding
Spring to be unkind, a disconsolate pedagogue.
Phoebe Kalid is a writer and poet from London, England. She holds a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Fawn Press, Not Deer Magazine, and Catchwater Press, among others. She spends most of her time gnawing on the bones of English folklore under the intense scrutiny of her three-legged cat, Mosca. Currently, she is writing her first novel.