the madrigal, volume i
helen jenks and tomás clancy
by helen jenks
The scent of April rain slinks down along
the unruly stone, curling and unfurling its slow-winding belly
there in the street’s quiet marriage of cracked tar and
sweet-lipped moss. Down along the Georgian road
the old folk grumble their shrewd and sensible dirge––
Sure look, who would go out in this?
Put the kettle on, now, and wait for it to end.
Safe behind old panes and soft-moving drapes, they peer curiously
out of the warm belly of their home, breathing in
the cool, mournful draught that pried through the groaning
weight of the worn, beaten bricks. Storms like this are sure
to pass, and will nurture this thirsty earth in a flood of tumbling
vanity. It is nothing new.
Let the moss and the proud-nosed mayweeds preen and prance
for a lick of it all –– they will be trampled anyway by the people
that duck and hide away from what is life-giving,
or by those that stroll along, unburdened by the wet which clings to them.
Perhaps they think fondly of the warm, welcoming doorsteps they
walk softly by, and dream of things that cease the bitter chill––
a roaring fire, a cup of tea, or freshly laundered clothes––
but still they walk on.
The puddles drown the foolish weeds, but no one pays them any mind.
Here, the slinking, pouring rain shall wash us all anew—
reborn again in the pooling dirges of springtime.