Playing in The Waste Land

Ides March is a dangerous month, siltingthe blood all Winter battlinglong cold, the scrimped-on heating,for reminders of summerin glorious gardens. Now sittingdown on itself, doffingcoats, mufflers as sun is lighteningwalls, air; flies awake, moths. And promisingnew lambs on the gorse-hilland a spring shower sparkling. But not gasping, clammy, to clutchchest, arm, bannisters, the bangingin temples that tunes with the ambulance.Don’t let the children see, you say to Marie,but she cannot understand your words. A heap of broken bonesin the stairwell. The Times horoscope readOne must careful these daysand you were not, Fear deathalways death, each our owndenouement, and the end of days.