“Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn”
Fragment 8: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
sloe is the blackthorn
fast-filling up with feverish flower
garlanded tight and white
- and spiked in its innermost reach
a blackbird's nest, mud-cupped
ruinous, in this sad, sodden rain
souvenir of just last March
when we were we and I was
less than solitary
A quadrille for De’s prompt to Spike up a poem – that’s 44 words not counting the Coleridge opener
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