Half moon, so cold above the sun-filled hedge,
backslash your terminator, cut into the blue
like a paper-tear. End of my afternoon rage
in the town crowds, sun spilling through clouds
like pinking shears poised for fraying threads,
imagining a world where She had never been.
Back home the seat is dry, day jacket-warm,
breeze stirring the skin of a green yearning -
(Tendrils of leaved shoots emerging swiftly
from the face of Spring, twining of mulched years,
and airs of rose-arbour.
Grief melts away in Elysium;
the stubborn err of tragedy, blame-cold-chiselling
cracks in slated cliffs, dusts now clear.)
somewhere-on-sea where sadness has cessation,
and happiness glee dances of maypole renewal.
Sun kisses my cheek, beams over my shoulder to
assist his paternal purpose on my page.
..
أنت تقرأ
February And Beyond
الشعرThis ark will take me through to springtime - 'the pretty pretty ring time'.
