BLACK BOOK
it seems time now
to turn back to those
terse ancient words of winter
(now the leaves flounder across lawns,
the grey lidless sky at the window,
and the hills melted in rain)
to tease out the meat
and gristle of them,
to open the heart,
see the red blood pump through
and where and how
that mysterious circulation,
vowel and consonant,
revolving as keys.
(and the cloud upon Bryn
like a dove on the brow of God.
and the trees in their lordly might
whispering from leaf to root to leaf)
each tooth and tongue
taking edge.
each passage,
a view coagulate.
(and the dusty crows thrown eastwards
on the wind of storm and shortening days)
a small breeze it is
that burns the flesh cold.
a bleak hill
a bleak hill.
harsh is the path,
and we, shelterless.
—
simonhlilly 