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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