About the poet
Jane Weir is an Anglo-Italian writer and designer. She has published two poetry collections with...
We Discuss D. H. Lawrence’s Story, The Fox
I talk about how I almost believed…
You said it must have been
the dapple of the woods the stranger brought in,
dapple being invasive as well as sly and persuasive,
and knowing how the pine trees crouch blackly.
But I said no, it was more than that,
unable to pin down,
there was always the suspicion
of a dud inside the melody of the firelight.
To settle, we set the scenario up, rolled the dice.
I played Bamford you played March.
Both of us in our mans’ overcoats,
breeched and booted, we sat contemplating.
This brought immediacy to the forefront.
What would we have done when faced?
You made up some excuse when we both knew.
I let you do what you had to do,
which was fetch the wood from the wood shed,
while I prepared the feed for the Plymouths
and Wyandottes before warming the teapot.
Turning down the bed,
such a gorgeous marshmallow white,
you made the best of Sons and Lovers,
sulphur daffodils, brilliant deathbed .
I watched your breasts swing as you dropped your shift
and thought of our Lurcher bitch suckling her pups,
by the crumpled orange of a dying range.
Inside my head, his words came hard, came fast,
filled my mouth, in all the heat, came up beautiful.
‘Thin little wild crocuses mauve and striped,
The narcissi hung their winter stars.’
I swallowed hard, you sighed; in the copse a triangle shifted.
Ghirlanda’s in bed, I reflected on how he would have loved
this or not loved this, depending on the thickness of his mood.
The dark was tough on us. I made a last stab
as streaks faded and starlight shuttered.
You became pragmatic saying,
‘Well then, that’s Lawrence, one hand held out,
making a flower show, the other clenched,
quick jab in our faces with his fist.’
Then we kissed.
from Signs of Early Man (Templar, 2009), © Jane Weir 2009, used by permission of the author and the publisher
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