Sunday, 12 June 2011

On Tree

It was there, under high-falling
Imagined comets, I spotted myself, 
Growing, rising to the vacant view, 
Catching the raining seconds, 
As they raised hoods and began to whisper
In the ragged, elapsing fibre, prancing, 
Selling secrets to the trees, 
And not until my haunted spheres, 
Through pin-hole exits blew smooth
Streams of order, coded colour, 
Did deception cease to breed.

No comments:

Post a Comment