Days toll-down monotone their warning-bell -
yet times before these weights of pen were pressed,
waves ran content, unharbored, unexpressed;
grey HUD's couldn't flatten their swell.
Mixed flocks wheel skywards and compel the gaze;
black leaves that twirl and slide with shales of cloud
inform me that I frack my thoughts aloud
while they drift easy on through reams of days.
Talk to the dead or to your living husks:
We minced the hydra well of all our days;
heads don't grow back beyond our morning dreams.
We catch a love of sitting into dusks,
transcend mid-winter dead-ends of our maze,
to see how hushed now deepens as it streams.
..........................
'Before you get anxious, little Piglet', said Eeyore. 'I enjoyed writing this. The dark mazes of the Italian sonnet and whatnot.'
