Tuesday 18 June 2013

O diminishing cloud-cradle of vanishing happiness
I am restless to repeat you
but I’m scared, so bloody scared of the
star-stubbled mugger of clearsightedness,
most of all when
stumbling through the grass-bark dance alone
the trees are shaking their hips
and I can’t even see their rustling fingernails.
Then I shiver like the colours of countries in the wind
as if up through the roots have come
unshredded archives of souls.
O if only a charred dough-corpse were in my hand
and the song-sweet voice of Bruce in my ears
I might fight my fear. 

George Maude

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