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The Foyle Flows Softly When She Sings Her Song

The memorial sky: invasive clouds are too near and hyphenate
the irises like cat's eyes entranced: motorways are stairs and corridors
in scale, convoys of traffic are so much glass, metal and plastic
and in each a phantom ghostly driver plays out the sonata
of speed and distances

The tattered arras of clouds is carved against blue
carvings of clouds in Alpine grey, Himalayan silver
the dome of the sky leaks pewter, lead, burnt brass
and the sacred sun occluded.
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Saturday, January 11, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: love and life

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6/24/2021 11:00:34 PM #