The log
its strength and sense all gone
it's spine a line of dust
and broken strings
its crumbly leaves a home to motes
of dust and on its pages
stains like maps of Empire
and yet those leaves
were once
as true as those now sailing
stains like maps of Empire
and yet those leaves
were once
as true as those now sailing
down the road outside
before their colours
came to gold
came to gold
and brown.
With colours
more transparent
(not so bright as were)
small beings move
without the zoom and zip of yore
float down and up
the tangled shrubs
in search of gold
umbrellas in the blue.
And
when
the low sun sets
those dots and flecks
that may be there
or maybe not
drop into traps
the spider sets around
to trap the inattentive ones
fatigued by season's change.
An admiral unfolds his sails
- a valiant try
to reach some foreign shore.
An old man contemplates
no turning back
or extra hour in bed.
With colours
more transparent
(not so bright as were)
small beings move
without the zoom and zip of yore
float down and up
the tangled shrubs
in search of gold
umbrellas in the blue.
And
when
the low sun sets
those dots and flecks
that may be there
or maybe not
drop into traps
the spider sets around
to trap the inattentive ones
fatigued by season's change.
An admiral unfolds his sails
- a valiant try
to reach some foreign shore.
An old man contemplates
no turning back
or extra hour in bed.
I like you comparison of leaves with leaves here Gwil and the idea of the stains being like maps of the Empire (all gone now - all those pink places in the Atlas). I loe it when you write long poems - they are always food for thought.
ReplyDeleteThanks Pat, there's a lot in this one to get round ;) deep in parts!
ReplyDelete