A CUCKOO IN THE NEST
A cuckoo see-saws in the sunny dregs of May.
All the fractured warriors, pale and bloodless,
Sink into the seed-filled soil.
The winners and losers are the ones
Who laid out these fine roads.
So we can trust no other paths
Through the oak deep woods and sun-warmed cliffs.
They have buried their gold here and there
Like dinosaur eggs, cold hope and useless,
Without the thrusting love of bees.
We shall walk among the dead and borrow their dreams.
Bred for an ostentatious perfection
The roses strangled by a sea of happy weeds.
Yet we take the rose for our badge:
The blowsy, failing, propped and preening dream
Of old men and fanatics, and fight the weeds together.
The cuckoo mocks the sunny morning.
Innocence supplanted by an unbuilt guile.
The world see-saws on precipitance.
The stars, at least, remain, untouched
By this busy arrogance of being.
How many times shall I sing the same song,
O, Enitharmon? Until the long grey rains
Wash all footsteps away?
Gronw, Gronw, that stone over your heart shall not save you.
It will be laid out: the failings of desire and the roads of gold.
It shall all be sundered by the returning soul,
The tides of people, a song of weeds.
Sweet smelling idiots, the tiered hierarchies of perfect moments.
We have longed for its return – the resonant, ephemeral cuckoo.
But now its constant echo palls. It is no bard, but pure politician.
It ousts the futures of others, counts away choices, one by one.
The roads that are reasonable, are inevitable.
You had the choice a long time ago, if you recall, to be a hero
Or to fall safely into those ruts of good and equitable habit.
We have been charmed down from the tree now,
Given a voice, and we must fill the role assigned us.
To heave the future from its nest, watch it crack
Against the stones, and pray for food to still sustain us.
—
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