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An Acmeist Oeuvre – Muse from the Mountain |
Wild fruits fall once again and time
Passes its orcharding. Leaves,
Their shape like hieroglyphs,
Make little of the future.
Where is ‘the golden child’ – the one
Who inherited my uppermost branches?
Who swayed and sang
As only innocence can? Perhaps
Now flown... and past recall! Past
The old vibrancy
Of a lover’s gaze – stepped out – over
Grief’s cleft and into another.
Utterances from a distant star:
They’re shooting hearts
Into the frost of space.
It’s no more than a rumour
... Something to
Taunt emotion.
Lead it away
From the self without self.
A horizontal shriek
And gash
Streak across
This lost horizon. It is
Not my kin, my valuable! My love lies
Beneath the pressed foliage.
The brown earth.
The departing seasons.
copyright 2018
Stefanie
Bennett |
