Saturday, 10 March 2012

Sonnet 004

Over the stream, hid in the copse’s dark
There are the beasts that wait, grave, unnumbered,
Still to each other, lost in their dull heat.
Tenderly, they stroke their sleeping hungers,
Watch as we burden each other with hope,
Barter the older traces of ourselves
And go to the work of our forgetting.

Look now into the space between the trees;
Each breathing mass assured of its return.
Our lullabies are coming to a close.
There’s no recourse to the categories,
The templates of style and the shaken hands;
Only memories of fervid desire.
You say the words, lines learnt, what do I know?

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