Sybarite

It was not for lack of love, 
but love of safety 

that I withheld myself, 
and it was not for lack of shelter 

but love for the hedgerows 
that I stood in the rain 

twirling my bent umbrella. 
May’s solitary sybarite, 

Ilived purely 
for beauty and pleasure. 

Of the sharp-clawed hawk 
Irarely thought 

orthe way all things 
stream headlong to disorder 

for the hedgerows still held, 
and the great strings strummed 

their steady, soundless concerts. 
How strange it was 

to hold the human shape in this. 
How fine to flirt – shy groundling – with abandon  

and never be betrayed or shamed or bruised 
or lose my bearings in the happy garden.