Thursday, February 19, 2009

232. REMINDING THE POT OF GOLD

REMINDING THE POT OF GOLD
Elixirs of this sort are
a dime a dozen: a slim form
of the weather-coat worn by
soldiers in the enemy's army.
The clocks tick, the weather vanes spin.
The small restaurant alongside the tracks,
now gutted and under some form of
renovation, sits idle. Along its front window,
five forms linger - awaiting buses or taxis -
in their winter coats. No one notices a short
flock of birds overhead; things gliding and
flitting to branches on the bare trees nearby.
-
The thick white fog hugs the marshland and shrubs:
it stays close to the ground as it tries not to move.
The bog and the swamp leech like eerie fens -
a low and dismal smoke distends.
Above it all, a white round sun tries
breaking through.
-
I've probably tried everything too - praying,
wishing, hoping. All to no avail. I've kept
appointments for things of this sort.
A life like this must have its meaning -
still, I can't remember what it may have been.
(Elixirs if this sort are a dime a dozen).

No comments: