It's difficult to know when we are sane:
(a wave runs out to meet the wave runs in)
projection is the nature of the Jinn;
the tragic and the pastoral entrain.
So as I drive and sigh through dark's domain,
racked with the fractures of a live-dead love,
and as I noon-brood on a wheeze-winged dove,
transported with a sunburst, the refrain
(alternating visions) is both are sane,
seem two in one - 'death-in-life, life-in-death.'
Such undulations, so cetacean,
draining a lubber white to filch last breath.
In dream-inconsequence, love's pinned
to a gold tree, hymning undersea wind.
..................
*Re Yeats' 'Byzantium'
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoesieIvy-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...
