Stop a priest and ask

and will the hawthorn wear spring clouds
as the woodpecker kees and drums in sun

to warm the buds of ash and polled poplars
in streets where lovers waited to watch the moon

with arms around waists that kept a warmth
of love hidden from the bite of winter frost

And will the pubs serve beer sipped by men
with dirty hands from the making of a ship

of rivet steel that broke waves and hearts
in ports of sun and ports of city towers

so the women of one cow farms could stare
at a rock wet from the tears of waving ghosts

And would the child afraid of candle footsteps
that whispered touch learn to sing with skylark

high in the sky as swallows titter at fools like
those who want a heaven of things unseen

Published in Message in a bottle