"To live without the reference of You -
a harder path I never thought I'd tread,"
moans One.
"Oh, now," pipes Two. "Nothing to dread.
I'll lead you this adventure out of blue.
I seem a Janus wrenched round, fused in one -
trembling bites of the lip, then those slow grins -
as Adam, when Miltonic tales God spins,
puppeting emotions, deep-futures done.
I watch the blackbird pecking up the fruit,
unbidden, unforbidden in mild winds
with nothing left to fall: - no Bite, no Snake,
no Eve and now no me. I fade, to boot -
and oh, what clean remains for all amends,"
says Two.
But One is just not in this take.
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...
