Tuesday, 28 April 2009

Train Journey


The oaks are shepherds of grass: 
earth-reined clouds of vein and sap 
rooted to days of sliding tones. 
Sculpted, struck, and air-plucked 
our lines and poles that race the grain 
might tease the ageing sounds of muck.

Alone transcends Autumnal colour, 
fading every corner of the soul, dormant 
like a child breeding her own dark womb - 
a dull and pining presence, stairs 
spilling onto a platform of air. Or a door 
high in a wall, opening onto nothing. 

Time dried hard in faces: eyes ploughed with 
hours, bodied with swells and subsidences, 
flooding and sucking the channels of days 
like the bittersoft smears of old men’s tears - 
breathing a sob-seeping of lifeworn ways 
beneath hoarded thoughts and patient years.

So look for me in reflections of clouds 
swelling fathoms below you, watching 
or in that creche of bracken, snow-hatching.

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