i
High Coombs
it matters not
how bright the day is,
it´ll be no more than a tale.
a rainbow in my
window often repeats
as a small miracle.
clouds kiss
like classical lovers
framed on canvass
& disperse
pretending innocence,
remorseless, relentless,
as though they´d wanted to erase
the poetry they´d written
with an endless substitution.
ii.
On the Downs.
warm spring rain
in songland song,
wild spring rain
& songland gone,
the downs swollen
down dancing rains
on wind sheets driven,
the woodland darken
& all ways run
down to the fen
to north & south joining,
to the way formless forming.
iii.
The Poem.
the poem goes on,
as when the word is gone,
it only goes on.
not to echo sentiment,
it is nothing if not elegant.
nor ideological musing
or that image matches
emotion
that´s but in the flashing
to the flowing which knows
only its coming & going,
not for a song of a swan,
if you seek meaning
instead of seeming,
wider than fiction.
Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2004
All rights reserved
