Spring Witch

Brian McCabe

I wait out winter plagued by your ghost —
impatient rains whisper, winds rumour you,
caressing the skins of my windows,
speaking into the ears of my chimneys:

She's coming, say the rains.
As before, wind says.

And you do, one dark March day:
loud and chaotic, incanting your 'ohs',
no prim Primavera, no flowers-in-toes,
but cackling as you cast off your clothes.

She's here, say the rains.
As before, wind says.

Your black hair is treacled by the rain.
You raise the wand and you conjure again
whatever love I have for living
from this world's rebirth is spring.

She's leaving, say the rains.
Gone, gone, wind says.

From Spring's Witch (Mariscat 1984)