by Rachel McGladdery
Spring comes, blue and yellow and fierce with enthusiasm
Light forces fingers into where we’d tried to cage.
Prying, ruthless, tearing away the nailed up timbers.
The timbers weren’t sound, were they?
Or the nails not put in straight.
And the light floods in.
Rudely, the room’s exposed with its bare store shelves and dust, like mice, lined up on every surface.
The curtains come down, I’m yanking on them, swinging, “More light!”
We don’t need velvet now.
We don’t deserve it.
No point in ornamenting the tawdry.
I lie panting, dust prickles on sweat-soaked skin.
I look around at the pit we’ve locked ourselves in all winter and see:
How spring can be like an autumn wind, that strips away the leaves from a nest no longer worth hiding.
Rachel McGladdery lives in rural Lancashire.