Monday, 14 December 2015

1 New Poem

In the grandeur lost temporal acts,
the slow-swung balletic step of
star systems, blank canvass, nothing
of this will have matter,

it becomes the tatty fragments
of memory, sustaining spots of
sun when windows close on
four-poster beds of middle-age's
drifting, free-spent regret.

But it takes time to see
in such light and

Perhaps I needed someone to protect
protect me, covered clarity from rainwater
buckets couldn't conjure any kind
of mystic's ration to take

that sort of long view.

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