Now shall I speak in brindled words
the brindled thoughts of poets wise,
whose scope of life and whim,
surmise and sighs,
and love for life,
is seen in ecstasies of weald and wood.
I hear their words on angels' wings
for, though these poets died,
their fears and loves survive,
in harmonies that rise
to waft and wheel, then drop
with claws of steel
to pierce the soft of human stuff
and taffeta ordeal,
raising up such welts and weals
as resurrection deems it needs
to vanquish death.
My favoured book now falls,
its meld of life and rage consumed
in sleep, the blank of sheep
that will lamb anew
now all is still.
Diffuse the light of whispered dawn,
still damp with dew when I arise;
a no-man's land, where lost souls scrawl
a half-scene purgatory of mists
that hang like flaccid sheets,
in the main awaiting
doldrum days, the listlessness
of lethargy and age,
until a gentle breeze
brings life again.