Juno In Her Birthing House
Roof tiles flayed by a blunt
a standpipe spews drain-water
like a Saturday night lush.
Upstairs (in her secret temple)
Juno sleeps on a silk birthing bed
her fiery womb restless,
echoing the unseen dream.
Cold fingers of rain entrance
the waking child -
a giddy winter song whispered
in a choristor's eaves.
Trees bend in the garden - gale-forced
into submission - press
against rain-leavened windows
eager to watch her swollen rivers break.
The child watches too, through his
translucent window of scented flesh,
reaches out to the green-stemmed bud
while his mother speaks in tongues.
"My husband is all at sea,
magnetised by a lighthouse beam!"
"My stethescope and ether are
stuck fast in winter's sludge!"
The storm electrifies - smashes
the harbour wall.
It is conductive, fresh-turbined,
illuminating the floating child.
Lightning strikes a chimney pot.
Thunder splits an unseen egg.
Her birthing house is a womb,
within a womb, within a womb...