Sunday, 18 August 2013

The White Clover Flower

(Poem II – The Confessional Trilogy)

Would it help to admit,
My devotion to the white clover flower,
All awe, all respect,
In the dewey green grass,
With its epigram leaf,
Peppering over near-cultivated braes.

Would it make any difference,
If I apologised,
For backie-jumpin’ all through,
That cold December.
For invading your garden,
And tearing through the privet.

For stacking up your paving stones,
And placing a park bench,
On top of your Mercedes Benz.
For knocking off your wing mirror,
For the reckless run,
And the damage to your hedge,
And the filling of,
Your empty milk bottles,
The pissing on your plants,
The discarded, sordid, soiled pants.

Would it help if I confessed,
To the white clover flower,
Stretching so civilised,
Over half-cultivated land,
Hyper-aware of its size,
Exploding miniature sublime beauty universe of petals,
All-encompassing symbolism,
Mystery of life,
Of youth,
Of life not death.

Would it matter if I said sorry,
For all those drunken nights,
Unmanageable,  unreasonable,
Shouting in black-out,
For wasting emergency service time,
For the blood on the car-seat,
And you being woken in the night.

Would it change things if I offered,
My sincerest regrets,
For the drug-induced apathy,
The drunk-driven car,
The high-wire fall,
Disregarding of duty,
And bent,
And bending so quickly,
For lack of moral fibre.

Would they help,
My great bitter tears for the flower,
Its fleeting moment,
And glorious progeny,
Resurrection in action,
The white clover flower.

Would it make a difference,
If I said sorry,
I’m sorry for tearing,
Through your plants,
You so lovingly cultivated,
And worked so hard,
To keep alive,
It’s only now,
I can imagine,
That I was you,

The greatest leveller,
Of have and have nots,
Making sure the bill’s halved,
By the haves,
And the pain of the balance,
Is transferred.

Powerless I am,
Over my love for the white clover flower,
I weep for it,
As powerless I was,
Horsing it through the backies,
Me and the B-dogs,
That cold December night,
Through the backs of Muirfield Crescent.

I escaped, I escaped,
On that cold December night.
Does it help that I admit,
That I escaped that night,
Into the white clover flower,
The glorious,
Wonderful fields
Of white clover flower,
Beyond your privet hedge.

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