The Poetry Society

Embers still coated with ash

these February buds - while others

already show the glowing nub

of life, each one Dionysus'

cone-tipped staff; and the first raw leaves

unhusked seem frail red curds and fibres

of flesh clinging to the twigs, as though

bacchantes had been here last night

to carry out spring's sacrifice

and thrown the torn and bloody shreds

of Orpheus' limbs into the branches.