I find myself awake, and in my wake,
as fallen from a giant, wakes a man,
and from him wakes a child, all in a wake,
to mourn the passing of Leviathan.
I rock the cradle to assuage the child,
and stoop to hear the man bewail the clod,
and from this height see only the deep wild
the wreck behind me of dark brambles trod.
Ah, who empathizes makes a poor villain;
yet villain must he be when cloak is cast:
devastates beyond all penicillin,
who bares his deepest angers at the last.
But whether in deep water or deep waste,
the wilderness is all there is to taste.
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...
