Creation Poem by Denise Antoni

Along the lanes the rowan
Trees put out their fresh green tongues,
To taste again the young yellow dew
Of a new-honeyed sun.
Along the banks the willowed girls,
Who cried glass rivers in vain
All winter long,
Swan past now in gold-leaved dresses,
Combing out the brassy threshings
Of my old, frozen song.
They tease out the jaded furls,
Ease the hood and jesses of my longing,
Release me into spring again, shivering
On the bright and streaming dawn.

Along the lanes I am returning
To keep, I hope, the age-old promise
Of a green feast.
Or if not, then to pay, at least, the owing -
Offering a soft, wet-winged glimpse
Into the stumbling chance, the trembling delivery.
Or if not even that, to witness the early sowing
Of the first, quivering poem.