There’s a patch of light making through a hole in the clouds
And a path of gold walking
Towards me across the river.
Trees, chopped and leafless, stand before the twilit sky
Like amputated men;
A bouy rocks in the mouth of an inlet, hearing it all again.
Spring is a thought
The horse chestnut had first, unfurling leaves as tender
As babies’ tongues, and a patch of apple blossom; they
Claim the cloudy evening mysteries of mist and softened footsteps
For their own, for the scene of spring’s doomed innocence:
Lace skirts on a muddy sky, the blossom in the twilight
Tells of loss.
Will I reclaim? Will I regain my purpose,
Roll again my blossom dice upon the sky?
Or has the river smoothed my bones from furious knuckle
Into curios for tideworn boys to find?
The grey heavy curtain of the river, the old man told me,
Hides millennia of suicides and drunks, the unfortunate and those bumped off.
Fodder for the cormorants and grebes I watch
Beneath the path of gold
Beneath the patch of light lingering in the clouds.
In a move that we may all live to regret, I have commenced to inflict my poetry on you. At the bottom of the page where I wrote this one I scribbled a phrase, which, on reflection, carries far greater insight: The richer you are, the less you spend on curtains.
Oh that poetic spirit.