Thin Margarine

There's a hole in the clouds,
like the old fashioned holes that
Christ peeped through in those
pictures that hang on old cottage
walls. But it's just a hole in the clouds
after rain, after sun, and
in the distance, the cuckoo calls.
Cuckoo. Cuckoo.
A light rain falls, and blows away.
It's May, and my lettuce is
coming on well, I can pick
leaves now to make a BLT,
and I'm hoping for tomatoes
in a month or two.
I'd like to be a true earth mother.
Right now, I'm only practising.
I have parsley and leeks, carrots and chives,
and my garden moves slowly.
A steady beat. Robins
and blue tits feed at the feeder.
I want to feel the days pass thickly,
richly, like freshly churned butter,
not here and gone like thin margarine.