The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Sunday, 5 February 2012
The Weeping Willow
The way it craves the river is well known.
Here though, on waterless terrain
persistence in its search for moisture leads
to form, the shape and feel of water -
there from the beginning in its name.
I look at it sometimes, imagining
I'm looking at its age-old fantasy
(obsession does make doubles of us all)-
a redefining of the term wet dream.
The dream is written clear in movements
of its silken skirt, smoothed by fingers
thin and thalli-like that, dipped
into the aqua apparition, will
be played like harp strings or become
a corps de ballet of the evening breeze.
Magpies flick through deeper streams
like bottom shadows of lost fish.
Stray sunbeams probe its depths.
Last night, ice covered when I looked,
I saw a frozen cataract - the dream
takes many shapes - a thousand tiny
water flows arrested by the cold.
White water in a different form.
Linking to dVerse Poets', The Object is Poetics.