Rite of Spring

The poem

So winter closed its fist And got it stuck in the pump. The plunger froze up a lump

In its throat, ice founding itself Upon iron. The handle Paralysed at an angle.

Then the twisting of wheat straw into ropes, lapping them tight Round stem and snout, then a light

That sent the pump up in a flame It cooled, we lifted her latch, Her entrance was wet, and she came.