Rain has bludgeoned
the perfection of clock-globes:
globes all spent,
seeded down by their own leaf-bases
never to sail golden wind.
Most are rent,
rugged hemispheres;
after the mussing,
only a few
retain some semblance.
Apple blossom blurs on bough,
petals slipped and stuck to leaves...
Below, on opportune bramble,
is patterned, cemented by wet,
what seems a scattering of white tragedy,
as if something is buried beneath.
The same tender confetti
littered christening and marriage,
now this last rite, delicately adorning,
within the echoing
corridors of blackbird elegy
and the pigeons' few
funerary words.
..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poesia"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
