Cross-waked shimmer of sundown light, and silhouette
gum-tree shadows in the little lake where two ducks
sit at the centers of their spreading rings; which reach
to interfere, as if communing silently
through the grooved discs of meniscus, the minute walls
of fine wave-sprites picked out silver in dusklight, as is
the long narrow wake of a mallard slowly paddling,
extending and extending, it seems far beyond
the recall of our conversations, as we stroll,
which well with a spring of step, filigree from us,
disperse as the aerosol of breath on breeze...
What were we saying? I can't remember now. Look.
how the sky alters in a heartbeat, how higher rouge
fades grey - and the low backlight's an orangery.
.......................
Statues and Victims
They put Him on a pedestal for what they said He'd done;
they tied a rope around Her neck before the setting sun;
but afterwards it all came out: the first was a son of a B,
and the one, quick-limed, her crime was to be free.
Who raped and burned and looted
and stole a country's wealth,
some council said, "A brick!' and drank
their very best of health;
so posthumously stuck em
where the common would pass by
and raise their eyes to odds and sods
immortalized on high.
They put Him on a pedestal for what they said He'd done;
they tied a rope around Her neck before the setting sun;
but afterwards it all came out: the first was a son of a B,
and the one quick-limed, her crime was to be free.
etc
........................
This below from 1975 in Cambridge
Sometimes
Sometimes it seems easy drift on winds, randomly following down sporadic leaves, again and again, lifting from one stopped to another still falling, weaving hypnotic tension between branches and grass, held in the damp air, paths in the afternoon, brown flames over grey. But as December approaches, the leaves still falling take me by surprise; I see them touch down singly on lawns of leaves, on streets of scales like scorched paper.
.......................
Why am I talking about December? ... because it is June in the antipodes - winter here :)
YOU ARE READING
Bridging
PoetryPoetry. Each new poem with the bonus of a much older poem from relative youth, bridging time, in a way.
