Standards

Mid-April and meaning,

somewhere it means

sand on the wind

and a dry throat.

Elsewhere snow

beyond the reasonable

being tired of ice

and white, cold and

mittens, impatience 

for warmth without wool,

saying bring us light

and sun and green.

In the west of Ireland

in a small city

steeped in war and histories,

for a child in the sixties

it meant gatherings,

groups of boys roaming

collecting logs and old dressers

tires and inner tubes.

Midnight raids to steal

timber for Bealtaine

and the bonfire.

Crazed nights of music and flames

wishes and lost meanings.

But here and now

mid-April means more magic,

greens of chestnut leaves

over Cook Street

back lit yellowed hues.

Trees with skirts of pink 

turning to understated leafiness

after the flowering.

More blossoms opening:

magnolias, lilacs; 

purples and off-whites,

reds in rushes

of silk and velvet 

flashes,bursts 

of yellow furze invasion.

Planters quit pouring coffee and

swinging hammers, 

gather bags boots and shovels, 

move again to the mountains airs.

A butterfly the size of my thumb-nail

flickers blue and cream

over dark rocks on Dallas road

and the hiss of an ocean

delights in me

the ever fresh wonder

of watching

new nakedness emerge

neither tanned nor jaded.