(in memoriam Louis MacNeice, 1907-1963)
A scrawl of birds
rose up from behind
her eyes, and flew
towards the obvious woods.
He saved his words,
reserved his prophetic lines
for eyes less blue
than those shifting moods.
That was no music
he thought he heard
but wind like fingers
tickling down the ice.
Too much the public
schoolboy to rank third
among the dead ringers
going once, going twice.
Me, myself, and I,
notorious trio run wide
from snowbank to square,
egged on by this
malign and alien cry.
Usurious slow bride
recounting in every bare
detail, kiss after kiss.
Recalling youth’s long headache,
the cure as well,
less blue, less full
of birds than imagined.
Every liberty he takes
is given, Nimue’s spell
charming Merlin to pull
his own white hind.
Jester, capped with restraint,
priest, collared with fear,
smooth the young brow
made hot with shame.
Eyes free of taint,
sweet lips without sneer,
the mind may allow
what body can’t claim.