Thursday’s Child

The apple blossom would always come
Too late
To celebrate the stretch of
My uncertain skin,
Spring sauntered in,
Teasing taunts, all wry smiles,
I, oblivious to the undertow of party lies;
There was an old orchard at the end of my country mile,
I would lose myself over the meadow,
Under the trees
To follow the river through the dusk,
Fistfuls of buttercups
Offered as penance for cold suppers waiting;
Father Blackbird would call to me
From the branches
That the cherry blossom comes too early to sing,
And the lazy flutter of
Apple blossom dawdles
Over the fecund belly of a brazen spring,
The hem of hand –me –downs catching mud
I heard Mother Blackbird singing high,
There are too many roads,
All older than I
And the narrow path trodden over the fields
Was over before I knew
It had begun;
A stumbled start,
(I can tie my own shoes you know),
Into the empty promise,
Full of the chatter of neglected ghosts,
Sing out my name again
Ask me where I’m going,
Like the breeze-blown petals scattered along the road
Sticking to my sole,
Apple blossom comes too late,
Cherry blossom a ticker tape
Parade of soft coloured rain,
I thought I’d know when I got there.