V

For Those Especially Bewildered

by the Spring

Those painted poppies on the wall
And wilting tulips in theatre tubs,
The 'Hands off!' of the society troll
And the intimate sweetness of her smile,
The foolish compassion of the theatre dame
Who wished compassion for any girl
Who had come to grief, the packed flowers
Stacked high in the coloured shops for sale
And the careful vandalism of a child
Who, like my friend, cried 'Cissy!' for gazing at the flowers;

The fingering-over of the books in the stall
And their ever-smoother, brighter, jackets,
The ruthlessness behind the smile
Of the prize-winner taking her toll
Of human love and human greed
And of herself, and even the small
Bewildered grief of those bereaved,
In the forest, where the wild flowers grow tall
In the fallow grass, and the animals gay
And hidden run and cry and call
And the stately river flows by supplejack and pale clematis:

Is this just the city? or are even all
The corners of the earth affected too?
Do our country cousins smile?
Smile at the sunset? laugh at the storm?
I would not expect an answer, for you tell
That the best would never hear the question
And the worst have never known the fall,
And the rest of us make up this majority,
Who thus cannot ask of ourselves and still expect an answer.

P. S. Wilson