Beneath the drifting cumuli -
their white tops twisting slowly
grimacing visages, horses
rearing, flaring, pawing at wisps
that linger half dissolved in blue
as wistful dreams may do in day -
their bellies sliding, smoke-grey, leer-sneer by -
all modulations of the sun and wind
on weather's edge so fresh and changeable.
The modal music of these moods compile,
that, by the time I've penned them,
sky's a gulf of indigo - a little while.
The birds may dance to shift their perch
like notes on staves or knight moves so Sicilian;
then sweet white boughs toss darkly in
a wind that sometimes times with shuttering clouds
lashing in gloom a rage of deprivation - gone -
as the chiaroscuro of the sun returns
to flicker over green dock flames,
ruffle lush of April grasses that will stand
in emerald fire doubled by their own black shades.
And what of us? Music concrete rings round the
great tunes, cheap tweets and all cool coos
of birds.
Some metal woodpecker drill-drits
in sheathe of beak its fibrillating tongue
by the municipal depot.
But leave me out of it today, redundant, resigned
dissolved...
Ah! OK, then. See me scuttle in,
niftily for my present bulk,
out of the drizzle.
