Intended (Luc Bat)

And was there ever space 
between the nesting place of sense 
and fortune's recompense? 

The broken plan's dispensary 
of promises we see 
at last turn out to be a sop 

to hope. We do not stop 
to gaze, but seize inopportune 
moments to importune 

imagined gods to prune the vine 
of providence in line 
with inward-looking mindlessness. 

-o- 

Once, in a season less 
seeing, let's call it yesterday, 
I dreamed I saw a way 

to stretch the month of May through all 
eternity, forestall 
the times of drought, of falling leaves. 

I reasoned - no-one grieves 
in green fields, till the sheaves are gold 
and thresher ripe. The old 

from age to age had sold the myth 
of Barleycorn but with 
no ear for quest or grith for doubt. 

Then I would do without 
their gloomy counsel, flout the tongue 
of time, and in a young 
man's satiety, let hunger wait. 

-o- 

I find I pass, of late, 
close by the orchard gate, to see 
the laden apple tree. 

Stark fruits, these, no leotard 
or thong to pass for hard 
won muscle tone, no garden-grown 

imposters. These have known 
a crippling wind and thrown a glove 
back in its face. I shove 

the gate. It yields. Above my head 
a choice of crispness. Fed 
on dreams, I pick the reddest one 

or she picks me. We run 
childless to catch the undone latch 
that closes as we snatch 

desperate at the matchless end 
of timelessness, pretend 
to know what we're intended for.