Saturday, April 21, 2007

poems in a folkrhyme manner

    Many waters -
        which of them here?
    Many birds -
        which flock here?
    Which come to rest,
        on which waters?
    Who stays to
        see them, where?


    The pigeon sat under
        the hawthorn leaves
    While the rain pattered
        he snapped the old twigs


        Edie sitting
    on a kerb
    absorbed -
  plays in her
    space, with her
        pink-framed mirror


    catch speckle

    a pair of

    sometimes lawn

    chased mirror-scent



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