Summer is the darker season:
leaves broaden, harden, deepen
their shades of green, rattle
as well as flap.
Winter was wysiwyg, stark,
incapable of deceit; Rorschachs
of gestural suggestion
drew the inflammation of memory,
lanced it with long thorns.
Now, already by mid-May
the season's voluminous, capacious
and covers are pulled over corners.
forget-me-not and alkanet,
ochre-hearted blues
distract from our asking
what the giant hands
of maple saplings
are hiding?
Do bodies moulder under nettle banks
and do mythagos* peer from
and pull back warty faces into
the impenetrable midday dark
behind concealing leaves?
..................................
*Robert Holdstock defines 'mythago' in his novel 'Mythago Wood'. As far as I remember, Its something of myth that is half-way real.
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Bare Shouldered
Poetry"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...
