On the way back from Stoke,
the black, the blue, the gold:
magnified in his last flooding
before gates of cloudbank veil
horizon's scaly struggle, his great eye
scanning intimately over silhouette
signatures, indiscriminate in passion
offers each one his bright oblivion.
I thought I only dreamed of evenings like this
or in naive hymns to inspire empire men,
tattooed on my imagination in the choir;
but the gold is worth more than ever I dreamed;
and it streams out of me so lucky
I am to need to look to find to write to you.
..
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
