Across the far-reached tarmac
it fell, to lay dormant.
No black night could hide
the cold glory,
stretched like starched linen
to the trees;
no sounds belie
cuts of ice beyond.
In moonlight, shaded
by trees, jaded
with years, faded
from night, it stood.
Concrete support
for cold slabs,
where divers leap
in Summer's freedom.
When the crisp, fresh
coolness descended to
my thoughts, silently
casting grandiose beams,
I saw the trees,
and pondered deep ---
'--- Did Jefferies cast his eyes
where owls sleep?'
And did that star
fall behind these upright
arms, or simply hide
beyond some snow-filled cloud,
hanging suspended
by some unseen hand?
--- Desistic forces there,
that no-one understands.
When dawn fills
the greying skies,
and snow
still lies
in powdered piles
across the chained expanse.
will thoughts, stilled
in summered warmth,
see virgin crystals
from the dying night?
© 1969 : Colin Gordon-Farleigh
No comments:
Post a Comment