If I didn't see a wall of leaved boughs blown
in the cold rough wind of this late spring trough
I recall the gestural skeletons let light through
and how dazzling the brief day on its clean way.
Yet somehow, beyond this drizzled-on green wall
I place mythologies, sense them hidden within:
secrets and lies, fey faces and buryings
spectral images as if I had tasted thorn-apple.
'Tell me where all past years are.'
I think they are in there - peer out and gurn,
come out as far as 'the space behind the space
in front of the leaf-point.' Gusts disguise them.
You can't imagine worlds beyond this one's facade
until you get a good facade.
Summer gives you that
and even better on a good day, particularity of creatures
that are now deemed conscious, strange liveried
insects, and the birds presenting themselves
as they wish to, barring accidents of clumsy pigeons.
Yet in the end it is the facade we will cling to
as it tatters a delusion of eternity and leaves us,
unleaves us, cold and aching for bonfires.
..........................
YOU ARE READING
Walls Fall
PoetryLetting go of Fortifications and Armouring. There are treasures to be found therein. This is the softest M7 walking in a bare skin. There are no similar stories
