Nach der Sintflut kommt die ausgehungerte Ebbe
zieht das Wasser zurück
lässt die Böden flüchten
Walk on stilts,
Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom.
With them are selected versions of
Before light’s encroaching
Beams, across wavelengths
Of glints, in between yawning
Protocols of waking,
In this arid circumstance,
on a collage of sacred pulses,
this pot - Heritage - merely sits,
smoked and besmirched by elements
Verdigris is the evidence of death,
the symbol of ruin,
Sunday rises gallantly from behind
Distant clouds, orange, on the wall
Of low, chintzy, tepid skies.
Like a child's toy stomped on by a vicious adult,
These images haunt...
It's no pribble when I insist that their mothers' breasts,
Sucked lame by gelid seasons,
(A poem in honour of Shell Camp. Dedicated to all teachers and pupils, past and present, dead and alive) .
So, what says the Morning Information?
through the dark foil of festered
clouds, it peeps,
a lone trinket of heaven,