simonhlilly

Our Poet Undone.

Here’s a line or two –
And take him all to your heart,
For he is drunk and foolish
And dying far too young.
Away from home but longing,
Measuring the golden cup of words
And singing it down
As if a drought were all
There was to come, and maybe
So in eternal rest –
A resurrection of blackbirds,
A mistle thrush.
A drunken
Return of jackdaws,
Singing home much too loud,
Down echoing streets
And clattered rooftops:
The missed opportunities,
The secreted passions,
The lean-to promised land,
Webbed and oil-stained,
Slowly rusted,
Smelling of apples
And wood shavings.

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