IF you can walk through crowds of jeering,
Hiding your shame with an indifferent air.
As harmless compliments give way to fearing,
For your life and that precious flower of despair.
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I met miss blackbird in june,
her dun dress feathered across her sepia nest
and her bleak eyes set in ochre fixtures,
staring black through me, through the hollowed fronds
of the sambucus tree,
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Hold, fleeting kestrel, hold the draft above the pines.
Inanimate adjuster, one who refines,
who is marvelled, whose great achieve-of is
Stillness. No other living Stillness is as fine
as the windhover’s, who halts
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I have lived no more than a child,
Been made a plaything of the fates
And choked with dreams
Distorted through plastic walls of water, its own house of mirrors,
fast moving technicolour machinery:
an orchestra conducts Scream Symphony in C Minor.
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Hissing and frothing murky depths,
lapping up her depraved turf, seeking hidden seashells.
Crashing and pounding against
dishevelled garments, bunched up to her waist.
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