Poem for May

Song

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.

—Seamus Heaney

I love everything about this poem – the lipsticked rowan tree, the musical imagery, and that bird whose song gets at the heart of the bewitching, delightful medley that is spring.

 

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