Aubade for Edith Sitwell
Daybreak tumbles down the stair,
slips, and soaks my ragged hair.
Morning light, relentless rain
turn out tilted tunes again;
plainsong of the wind, perchance -
(overtones in solemn dance)?
Wooden flowers and stodgy kale
stage this cockscomb-crazy tale
where your gaucho lover waits,
drenched in horsesweat, by the gates.
He’ll lose courage. It’s not fair;
Edith, Edith, leave him there.
(Creaking timbers dip and slide,
mirrors crack from side to side.)
Must you have him, broom and gorse?
Very well. I’ll take his horse.
Tracks of birds’ feet in the sky
beat full-heavy drums, but I
travel light, ride bareback. Gone.
Looped into the rising sun.
Send a message, spin a wheel.
Paint a promise. Daub a deal.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Røken would be