JAGGED WIRE

A rail fence is more than that on a country dawn moving by lots over hill & stone; it barely pauses in the small of the field's lap, then is caught in grey positioning as light unfurls the sky. All is a matter of perfect blistering - dauber wasps are seen to heave the moistened wood in chunks to mossy furrows, benign in their firm embrace upon alabaster trees. There, crusts of heavy nails, marked like fortresses, droop in their rusty mail. Mostly ants, in open canter, move in as upon an urn & lance far more than jagged wire the breath of stillest air.  [29] 

 

EYESHINE

I remember the world like a picture. The habitat of trees and sense impressions, the cover of leaves as fall spurred its way thru corridors of plasma forest & sarsen stone. Most of all, I saw illuminated clearly the brash self poke of logic that came massively when sunlight stirred, lilted its early head erasing the world thru sand crusts of colour. The cabin floor, a cold dawn infinity, was a chilblain on frosty morning shadows - the old cupboards staring like flowers through a break in the leaves watched till the latches & hinges were worlds in frozen power, dark rust as thoughts meandering like age. The stamped down clay, the well worn earthen crust that met the door on opening showed the erring calender all its interminable days that waited, like madmen, to remind one of oceanic time. And, on wakening, the careless passage of life across speckled windows saw a terrain of light - tiny works in agility, the forest looming bright as meridians off ladders bristling with homuncular forms. Door of caring, the gentle trail left as a universe to announce the brittle thrust and restive eves of daytime shadow.  [30] 

 

SWEET WATER

The leaves lie hidden as spades about their home. Brief movement of a kitten, then silence till the car's engine drones. Close by, a pioneer cemetery sits near a secondary wood. Queer is the effect of sun on a tinted roof; bluebells with poppies, cowslip and tiny brook back of fields redden and given to wheat. A house is a machine processing the water of living a replenished cistern, birds paying a call, a minor animal brushing past an ivy-railed fence.  [32] 

 

PRIMAVERA

A poem is perishable and, like it, so much of life is spent in intervals - the jarring second regaining consciousness, a 

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