Shrovetide
Long confessed of leaves, mace-pods,
   these sycamores, maples,
 
the beeches, sessile in groves
   a weak sun drills at last
 
after a heavy overcloak
   of ashen days, 
 
why look to them
   except to exempt
 
from spilling one secret hour
   leavened & buttery-gold
 
despite woolen drapery, coats,
   socks, even gloves left on?
 
Whole bodies become throats,
   the guarded now unguarded—
 
which is the skull’s bright saying, yes?
   What the longer light means?
Copyright © 2004–2021 Memorious