The hat was not the half of it
It was not your hat I noticed first, but the snake,
slung lithe about your naked neck and chest;
a muscular mardi gras garland of beads.
Cycling nimbly towards me, too swiftly gone by,
you gave me a cheery wave and smile.
This was on Frenchmen Street where the hepcats jive,
my first morning in New Orleans.
What a welcome! I hope you know how you delighted me,
ticking all the boxes of offbeat things you really must see
in this dreamy, steamy, moonstruck place.
Cities do, sometimes, perform this way;
as when I filled my mouth with chocolate cupcake,
the best that New York bakers could make,
and looked out at the firemen round the burst fire hydrant,
the Harlem brownstones stepped, carved and gentrified,
and knew just enough to savour it all;
lick every sweet buttercream smear, relish every sticky clichéd crumb;
for I would be going home before too long.
Dream city bingo - the only game I play,
and you surprised me with my winnings that day.
A snake as slow as the Mississippi; that myth in motion,
stories rolling and boiling under its rippling skin,
biding their time.
It was a brown hat you wore and a snake to match;
boa or pythonesque,
a hefty, broad-skulled, slice-eyed ancient;
and my heart sped home to my little mouse-squeezer,
his innocent pupils round as the world, washed with gold and topaz,
light surrounding them with goodness like the sea.
Over a decade later he’s still with me, in his twenty-sixth year and not so hungry
but still my beauty, still not dead, and other friends have come and gone
but not him, not my snake; not yet.
But what has become of you and your wearable pet?
Have you sold out, stopped smiling, smartened up?
I feel sure you are still bringing the morning sun
and opening the city to everyone.
Did you, I wonder, try elsewhere first?
Pedal where people do not welcome snakes?
Your hopeful progress trailing screams like ribbons in the breeze,
your smiles met with howls and glares before you found your way to New Orleans?
Its many years of magic flickering fork-tongued,
tasting the weird from every unappreciative state,
willing you to come and be held, homed, hugged tight tight tight.
This token we hand over, which must be paid:
if you cannot meet the strange with pure delight,
in New Orleans, you cannot stay.
I have chosen the names of the dogs I cannot have
Bark Twain. Woof Whitman.
“Hairy britches” in Old Norse:
Loðbrók. Beowoof.
Zoltan and Carnage.
I call their names in the woods:
power sings through me.
Wild garlic, ramsons – Allium ursinum
Follow my scent trail into the woods,
pick your way down to where earth meets water.
See swathes of me, waves of me, long glossy leaves.
Wander home, basket full, fragrant sheen on your fingers
from early bright hopeful strands, arising green.
Spreading and spreading through the glade,
by logs and by fox paths, hugging the trees,
nestling into the earthy root spaces;
the canopy shades my juicy leaves.
Later, full grown, firm stalks snap in your fingers,
leaves lie the whole basket’s length on your arm.
When my flowers peep out, insistent in beauty
like clusters of stars shining above green water
my best days are passed but not over, not over.
Spreading and spreading through the glade,
by logs and by fox paths, hugging the trees,
nestling into the earthy root spaces;
the canopy shades my juicy leaves.
Curling through salad, butter for bread,
sauces and pesto to make your blood sing.
Turn the oven down low: I’ll stay verdant but dry;
crumble and scatter me where you will,
warm remnants of spring breathing over the year.
Spreading and spreading through the glade,
by logs and by fox paths, hugging the trees,
nestling into the earthy root spaces;
the canopy shades my juicy leaves.
Allium ursinum, bear’s leek or bear’s garlic,
wild garlic, ramsons: these are my names.
Once there were bears in these fair English woods.
They roam still through the river-filled forests of Europe,
padding over the peaks to the lands of their neighbours.
Spreading and spreading through the glade,
by logs and by fox paths, hugging the trees,
nestling into the earthy root spaces,
they sleep in the scent of my juicy leaves.
Flight of the dragonfly 