WHAT THE SIGNPOST SAYS
Dead of the year, edge of all things,
sorrowful finish - each and every frolic
over. Turns now that calendar page.
Just look, look at the trees.
-
I want to think I've introduced new squalor -
left the rudderless boat at sea, listening to
men and all they say : that awkward voice,
'here I am' today - all backwards.
-
It is the beginning of something
(find ye joy), just as much as the
end of another : and the moon
still hides behind a cloud.
No comments:
Post a Comment