The Cloak

When loam turns to lawn in the spring's

gentle spinning, bark and twigs covering

the raw earth as nourishment, fuel, leaves

streaming out like hair through the air,

when Will, the young millworker, returns,

the red cloak of his father on his back,

and birds start chattering, chiding him

carelessly, ceaseless as a telegraph,

he wants to tell them how he's been out

carousing for nights at sexual festivals,

reprising a green and previous dream,

poised for when the music might stop,

his words intact, still dancing in step

like seeds in the hands of the wind.