Awaking near noon in my parents' house
remembering all the tragedies at once:
the axefalls of relationships awry,
the fatal errors and the bitter deaths
of poor Sheila and of my dear father,
while warm wind shakes the limbs of new leaved trees,
and shivers the white blossom on the boughs,
and orange eyes of primroses accuse.
The fault that's threaded on the string of self,
and grief that fate deals anyway, conspire;
and all my years are black dogs slinking by
in dark on field-edge with bright lantern eyes.
Cock pheasant, haunting lawn behind the yews,
peck up my littered leavings of sad news.
..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poetry"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
