The Academi Cardiff International Poetry Competition

James Sutherland-Smith

March Adder

They say that one June fifty years ago
A goatherd swallowed an adder as he slept.
Villagers hung him upside down from a pear tree
And a saucer of warm milk was placed beneath his head.

The goatherd had to tell his story over and over.
No-one noticed what happened to the snake
After it had dropped from his quaking throat into milk.
Whether it drowned or drank its fill, they do not say.

It’s not June here but March and a young zig-zag
In printed violet skin has sidled out
From roots and mould beside a chinking, melting brook
Drawn forth by unseasonable milk-warm light.

My wife and daughter have skeadaddled up the hill.
I hear their Come away! For God’s sake, come away!
But take no notice as I stoop to watch more clearly
Its meander between bank of snow and bank of snow.

I hang my head delightedly above the snake.
I wish it well. I wish it dry space under twigs
Before the cold sets in again. I wish it
Not milk but an early fallen sparrow’s egg.