Of Men

[smokingboot]

Men they are like water through your hands
blossoms that flutter, sugar on the trees
songs that are only written for one time
yet stay remembered, even by
the nettles that once stung
When they were sung
When they were very young

Men, they shake like seedpods on a breeze
expressing endlessly one magic note
caught on repeat and rendered ordinary
by time and trinkets
waiting for the night
Though they are light
Broken and bottled tight.

Men they are a story told once more
muse-makers who will chain you to a dream
you must make real, if you stay
and you may, because they are
the hunger in the spring
And they bring
Nothing and everything

© Debbie Gallagher 23/04/201

I wrote this before the peculiar incidents of last night, intended it to be my Mayday poem. But it feels just about time now.