Let's keep it simple - there may be a Cause
honeycombed deep across the firmament;
but here's the rub - some loony man's hell bent
on channeling a thing that has no clause.
He wants to unite the tribe, with snake oil,
and write it better in a book to kiss -
to kiss, to bind, to kill, make all amiss;
and watch the cities burn, the dark smokes roil.
We deep in death and nothing helps us so
but the dawn comes and birds sing and we sleep;
whatever is our unknown case we weep
however imagination casts go.
There is a real, but yet no one may know
how it sleeks dovetail, nor what twigs may grow.
............................
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
