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Milkflower               Man in the Moon

         Lullaby           Cultivators

 

Milkflower

for Rose Flint

 

She doesn’t cut a single stalk to bring these bunches to us.

She reads. Her voice calls us inside a wood and we see

her shadow rise up from her body,

 

tall and separate; suggestion of Persephone

— always moving, sewing snowdrops

 

among small crowns of leaves,

patch by patch,

within the dark and slippery contract of a kiss.

 

Rose, go on

weaving the wet path.

 

I take from you this poem

for the time of year my farmer-mother calls the Quarter Day

of Candlemas, when spring begins.

 

My mother loves the way the evening moves, extending

light, as February comes

 

where once she watched her daughter walk

on her shadow and the snowdrops bend

 

and multiply

chill pale bells.

 

 

Susan Taylor

published in Poetry Review, Vol 96:2, Summer 2006

ISBN 1-900-771-497

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Man in the Moon

 

I marry the night

where you are a silver ring.

I force up through you,

new as your touch which fumbles

flowers in the pocket of hedge.

 

I have words for you

now you are simply halfling.

Unborn, unknowing,

your eye is closed but I see

mistrust through your eyelid.

 

Whispering nonsense,

you know you spoil my thoughts.

You, like a small child,

wield your round white eraser

and break into crazy song.

 

I have words for you

now you are simply halfling.

Uncertain, unspeaking,

your eye is closed but I see

hope through your eyelid.

 

You marry the night

where I am a silver ring.

You force up through me,

new as my touch which fumbles

flowers in the pocket of hedge.

 

 

Susan Taylor

in collection, Rose Rent, 1987, Turret Books,

ed. Carol Ann Duffy, ISBN 0-85469-085-9

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Lullaby

 

No cling now,

you put your hand in mine,

simply as a friend would,

a warm favour, small as a keepsake.

 

We tire of playing roly-poly

in the bounces of the bed,

but you shift always like spring water,

leap to me, a pool you can shock into ripples.

 

At this midsummer nightfall

I would cry through your voice,

astonished at a black cap of woods.

As the sky turns neatly purple,

I feel stillness in my blood,

the heave of rolling earth.

 

 

Susan Taylor

in collection, The Complete Bearded Stranger, 1984

Taxvs Press, ed Michael Farley, ISBN 1-85019-008-9

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Cultivators

 

               We,

who work with earth and steel

and feel winter frozen in our hands

where fields are looms

weave the patterns of crops;

damp loam flows like silk

through shuttling metal.

 

               And our hills,

with their wild uncurbable wills

may be hard to till

but are easy to love,

steep work weakens the tractor

but strengthens the heart.

 

 

Susan Taylor

in collection, Lincoln Green, 1977,

Lincolnshire & Huberside Arts, ed N S Jackson;

also in Strictly Private, 1981, Kestrel Books,

ISBN 0-7226-5694-7;

and Touchstones, 1988, Hodder & Stoughton,

ISBN 0-340-40820-0

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