Geplaatst op

maart 2012

Sorrowful dreams remembered after waking Shadow with dolour all the candid day; Even as I read, the silly tears out-breaking Splash on my hands and shut the page away . . . Grief at the root, a dark and secret dolour, Harder to bear than wind-and-weather grief, Clutching the rose, draining its cheek of colour, Drying the bud, curling the opened leaf. Deep is the pond — although the edge be shallow, Frank in the sun, revealing fish and stone, Climbing ashore to turtle-head and mallow — Black at the centre beats a heart unknown. Desolate dreams pursue me out of sleep; Weeping I wake; waking, I weep, I weep.