A Cato-Street Conspiracy Poem by Naveed Khalid

Thus, so spake I her voice in still waters by the riverside,
be lowly laid at the gallows of thy feet,
some unspoken word of long ago that half-baked
masonry's night,
so well writ in book of numbers e'ery flower
upon a barren heath,
the clock that tells time in the late evening;
a cottage-tree beside the oak, a table, a bed
of crimson joy;
the wall on high my shipwrecked dreams,
needest not her enchanting slogans of disparity:
this sad account of love upon the sand dunes;
still wed to my thought her departed looks in
haystack of woods,
thy iron car at Matilda's farm, marked with a hallowed sun
but of late,
fair weather days in the mellowing spring, arise, arise;
then, this world of unread assumptions in subtle reality
of the mind,
be my only woe of what the stars in secret influence comment,
away from high heavens, a broken mast-shaft at north,
darkly lit in thy abode under the Archangel's brow,
more temperate than darling buds of may in rosemary garden,
pricked with a furr coat in the cellar-barn of seventy winters
have thy November,
fell from myrtle that day of unaltered eye my sweet scented letters.

(C) Naveed Khalid

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All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Sunday, June 12,2016 8: 43: 54 PM


*Third earl of county: pokjokchok: III