by Ben M Rymer
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
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And left a fog of pollen on the sapphire-light.
Nothing needs happen now save morning,
And its spilling brazier of ash and embers .
The suns lens is lidded, the moon hooded
In melted lead and occasional dots of prism-dust
That goggle down on the charcoal trees
And blink and blink and blink.
It is as if the valley were sweating tar:
The haze looks like steam risen off
A road-layers drum. Smells drift in clumps-
Plastic, lavender, ozone, aniseed.
A distant billowed veil is drawn
And draws nearer. Now: its first roused tremor,
Like colts bolting, stampeding for freedom.
Now, the second. One Mississippi, two Mississippi,
Three Mississippi; now again. And four.
Hairs on end. Then the fat and increasing
Drops begin. A booming poultice of cobalt
And Lapis Lazuli- even crimson. What a gallery!
A landscape of voltages and Roman Candles
To shred and discard the grey storm-heat
Of the stewed afternoon.
Only a skin of dew remains
Of the torrents drench.
The storms gone to another valley.
All its left is the memory.