Omnipotent delusions lurk in verse;
though ego's just the vessel of the thing,
a filter of a channel sweet to sing:
the shamanistic ride ends in a hearse.
Consider the territorial birds;
their cocky, practised riffs say, "Here I am!"
But spread beyond the function of a plan,
such music's nearer bliss than our poor words.
This scribbled sonnet spun at breakneck speed
along old cart-ways of an ancient track,
gathers its own identities at need -
rolls them all up together. "Don't look back!"
The poem wrote itself. You assisted.
The payment? - oh, to find your eyes have misted.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-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...
