Sunday, October 11, 2015


Lost in no tasteful embrace
In the irrevocable night
So passes all our modesty
Where the beasts charge
To wound deep our pride
But never take away dignity
Hope is no splendid thing
No scaled butterfly wing
Of fluttering beats and hues
Colours of ochre and blue
It is the red remains of intent
It is green impotence of desire
And all decorum goes with it
At the unstitching of flesh
The silk falling soft off linen
The cloth now revealed
Plain, undyed and creased
And all water flows out to sea
And we are utterly undone
But what an ebb to this tide
We shall make under the moon