If life's a tree we've sap in several boughs,
but that's not it, we're branching twigs of time.
And yet that image wont flesh out my rhyme.
What do I say when bells knell me to rouse?
The realest thing that was is not, yet is;
and anguish that it causes can't be born.
So far away, I'm glad to sound my horn,
and celebrate my freedom with a fizz.
Clashing lucidities brought home through Dusk,
who holds a dark hand deep in brambled past,
sings out the melodies she knows will last,
yet keels the wave of present with her musk.
Snatch it from me I know I'd crumple up.
Confliction is the price to down this cup.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoésieIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
