Three ivory spires
rise up from a small hollow
where the road curves round
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There’s a clamoring of geese,
Raucous along the horizon
Beneath a bight blue sun
Of petulant February.
Their wild spear points form
And shatter and form again;
They careen across the skies now,
For they are hunting the spring;
And the blue sun rides the heavens
With them, tumbling the clouds;
His coming thrusts them aside
Like frost upon the…
a poem
So far below the crying of the moon,
Autumnal, plaintive, for the passing year
That’s gone beyond the ken of moon or stars,
I feel beneath my feet the skin of night
Stretched taut upon the mighty bones of earth,
Where summer’s relicts gild the weary ground
And softly echo weeping that too soon
The days are…
