Somehow, at 6 a.m,or whenever it is that the Sun returns again,the taste & the smellof the air hitting at the backof my throat, alwaysfills me with hope.
A present absence expands & contracts,hollow at the core asthin thoughtsconvinced that wordscan poison internal organscollapseinto a pool of stagnant waterwhere no light survives.The daysfold & fall awayleaving only the faintest traceof what onceexisted…grotesque& never-ending,a thing somehow still alive, like
You have a favourite tree in this city,& the one he hung himself fromis in the same public garden.You took me there once:2 am.,we were drunk.You climbed the trunk & sat on the branchwhere he swungfor hours, years ago, untilthe grounds-keeper found him in the morning.& quit their job soon after.He is always somewhere in your mind,the memories you want desperately to survivecome flooding back to you sometimes& the pain in your eyes is unbearable.So much trauma.
Those shadows on the cave wall, distorted,contorted,grotesque & tall,they aren’t shadows at all.Only mutated shapes;circus images permeatingfluid;another trick of a sick mind.Don’t take it too seriouslybut if youlisten too closely to the soundsthey start to drift &float aroundwithout direction, detached from meaning.Don’t be ashamedfor acting from the purest of instincts:
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,And little mouse that leaves its hole at eveNimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,Till past,--and then the cricket sings more strong,And grasshoppers in merry moods still wearThe short night weary with their fretting song.Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bankThe yellowhammer flutters in short fearsFrom off its nest hid in the grasses rank,And drops again when no more noise it hears.Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
The Winters are so short --I'm hardly justifiedIn sending all the Birds away --And moving into Pod --Myself -- for scarcely settled --The Phoebes have begun --And then -- it's time to strike my Tent --And open House -- again --It's mostly, interruptions --My Summer -- is despoiled --Because there was a Winter -- once --And al the Cattle -- starved --And so there was a Deluge --And swept the World away --But Ararat's a Legend -- now --And no one credits Noah --