Life’s core tours round
in dance, in decor;
gravity sends aureole charges
into southern nights.
I’ve seen this landscape
when day leaves moss and
like winds covering the light,
perfume hatches and lights languish still,
lying on a straw bed of stars and moonbeams.
The world depends on innocence,
where blood threads the veins.
Water unfolds salt,
sleeping with water-flowers
ploughed from depths.
A circle of silence in deserts of sound,
songs on a shadow arc,
youth’s flame veils the senses.
Witches howl my sorrowed mood
in green felt pastures begotten still
where moon-dust writhes o’er yesterday’s chill.