The Prune Detector
and Wallabiferous Kin
Grass lay grow beneath your feet
And hair may grow above them
Between the two I hear the beat
Of happy hearts that love them.
For hearts that quicken at the sight
Of staring eyes and faces
And hands that struggle for the right
To see: I tread these spaces
(Cold and footsore, mapless, lame)
In search of broken bodies
I seek to fill the open frame
And maybe learn who God is.
Oaks and birches branching high
Like heaven to the grasses
Conceal the corn in which I lie
From any bird that passes.
For eyes that melt before a leaf
Or blush when autumn weather
Weaves from trees a garland wreath
Which we, so supple, grow beneath
I forge my oaten tether.
Hanging fruits and pinkish corn
In angel gardens flourish
The grass that grows upon the lawn
In loamy death must nourish
Every seed and every weed
That feeds forsaken bodies
I'll play the game: the open frame
Predicts infernal wadis.
My sheets are torn, my blankets gone, my bed's no more a home
Than anybody's backyard or the alleys where I roam
I live the night
She's dressed in white - I know I'll find her soon.
The walls are cracked, the beams are breaking, scaffold holds the roof
But no holds bar her pilgrimage - she holds herself aloof
From all of us
She makes no fuss - I know I'll find her soon.
The carpet's stained, the oven dirty - rats infest the larder
My life was easy once, and yet each minute it grows harder
I can but try
If she'll stand by - I know I'll find her soon.
The theft of my effects was but a pebble on the beach
The return of my lost dignity is all that I beseech
The gift of mind
If she's inclined - I know I'll find her soon.
If she's inclined I'll find her soon and bring her to my home
I'll show her all the pictures in my photographic tome
Yet uncompiled
Though she roam wild - I know I'll find her soon.
If she refuses me I'll buy a ticket to a play
And be myself the audience, and act without delay
So firmly twined
With her in mind - I know I'll find her soon.
My map is useless - nobody can help decode the rune
I'll turn towards the mountains now the moon
Floods fields with silver with her age-old tune
She's dressed in white - I know I'll find her soon.
And now I rest
On native clay
I did my best
To keep a steady mind
To ride upon the gushing tide of day
I bore what passengers seemed happy on my raft
I fed them with what victuals I could find
And told them of my craft
(As if they couldn't see for themselves!)
What troubles fraught my brow
Upset my shelves
And now
I rest.
She lives in high places, he lives in low
And seldom, so seldom they meet
They should have agreed that the matter should end
With the vigorous tramping of feet,
The feet of the go-between, bringing the seal
To fasten their love, and to end
The passing of hours so slow
The passing of hours unreal.
She dwells in the mountains, and he by the sea
And seldom, so seldom they kiss
If only they'd spoken and tried to arrange
A means of de-coding their bliss,
A word to unweapon their arms
A charm to reburnish the mange
To restore the leaf to the tree
Restoring his life to her charms.
He is so earthly, she soft as air
They meet and phlogiston released
Dries both of their hearts, though they wish them to merge
In the love that's as good as a feast.
But neither will start till the gods have said grace
And the chorus recited the dirge.
Forever the clothes that they wear
Encumber their passionate pace.
Can any lore account for such a scene?
The tubby towers of passion start to lean
And end this lovers' balance, so serene.
Forget what's done. Believe what might have been.