Sunday, 16 January 2011

This Writing:

What lies it impregnates in ink.
Broods too long on the briefest
Of mist-swum pictures that swim my head,
Shorter than static though they live.

When, despite their vague
A well of hours is spent
Reeling them in from fog:

Enlivening them out of proportion,
Embedding them in truth
Now they cry so rigidly
From feathery wood.

Yet what truth can life yield
If one wades its streets unfocused,
Floats its days monotonous
With hardly a flinch

And when thought
Pierces the gloom,
Not try and decipher its root,
Its earth, its bark, its fruit?

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