The anger is not lost, just far away
below, a speck on a plain not reaching
more than a pheasant pumping into air:
Ge-back-ge-back-gebac, tail twirling.
The missing is still missing, the pieces
mostly at peace, a numinous loneliness -
wraiths of moonlit cloud, when a plane
amber-planets by the big dipper.
Some doors in the houses of the past
are left closed as they have no tune
to sing to the present; even the wind
under their gaps must say nothing.
One day someone inside might find
fingers on recorder, mouth on harmonica
and the tune will dance out down
dusty corridors to giggle in snail-shells.
..............
There is no principle of form here but four natural stresses (as I read it) a line and lines arranged in quatrains.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
