The Thief
Where has grief gone? Where has loneliness flown?
I know what I 've lost; I'm not in denial;
though yet in prison, no longer on trial;
in solitary, but not on my own.
Yelp out, you dogs, robing roads sing to me,
tweet to me small birds, through this sleep of sun
that lullabies all cares since days began,
blinds me smiling, drunk on sobriety.
Though deep in winter, I taste summer here;
though in my later years, youth gleams from me;
I struggle with my words; they curl and peel.
Dream lodged, serenaded by hemispheres,
some deep forgiveness works to set me free;
untwining mysteries from time I steal.
Write on Air
Sparrows on my apple twigs
sit quietly in the smiling sun;
yet when I've struggled with two lines
I look to empty tree - they've flown
Write cessations of far wheels
or patterns of a stirring breeze;
the words are clumsinesses slung
across a rickety trapeze
swung high through blue, the white and gold,
o'er candled green and tall fawn straws,
blur blinding disc, tree silhouettes;
feel bracing of the damp the cold.
"To catch an imp of sunlit smile
or cage the flutter of a wing,
you cannot do," the pigeons coo.
"So give it up, old thing."
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoezjaIvy-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...
