Giles Watson Poems
|6.||There Is A Friend Who Sticketh Closer||8/26/2013|
|14.||They That Mourn||8/26/2013|
|16.||Branwen To The Starling||8/26/2013|
|23.||Pearl: A Translation||8/27/2013|
|28.||A Kind Of Bright Darkness||8/14/2013|
|29.||The Butcher's Wife||8/26/2013|
'Forget me not, ' I thought you said,
and your gaze was straight and true.
I wondered, by your garden's edge,
could I disremember you?
The light refracted at your heart:
a warmth that radiated through.
'No, I dare not let them fade:
those powdered hues of pink and blue.'
'Forget me not, ' I hoped you said
as the summer bleached to white:
it was the hope that startled me,
like a swallow, into flight.
'Forget me not': I know it's true,
little flower of grace and light.
The time must come, whate'er I do
when I remember in the ...
Downland paths are arched to contours;
their flexed backs maned with broomrapes
and orchids. I have felt them shudder
when I walked them, as though vexed
by flies. Nostrils flare: sullen holes
where beeches have blown over. There are
vast eyelids lashed with stubble; dewponds
are their glazed corneas. A walker risks
being flipped over by a fetlock, when