The Dying of the Day
Above his head the helicopter blades
beat like a palpitating heart. He sees
veridian and emerald, deep shades,
the spine of jungle, leopard-lithe, as trees
arch down to glinting sea, with boats like toys,
so clear and close, he could stretch out his hand
and touch the bobbing gulls,the warning buoys,
dwarf waves that wash a miniature of land,
and further out grey slippers of great ships
with friendly guns and neat pale dolls of crews,
before the blue-green plane side-slips and dips
through dreams, a fading pulse of fevered hues.
The wound of slanting steel still bleeds,still bleeds;
the flight of sun is done. The light recedes.
grasshopper
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