POWERLINE HILL
Now night is falling the road hisses
Less and less often, like a snake
Succumbing to slumber or dying of cold.
Dry leaf cymbals are suddenly clashed
By some scurrying creature, at random
In the tight logic of its own huge existence.
Blue and orange must be the colours
Of whatever people live in the west.
A frog with a coat on is creaking in a ditch.
Like a hand knocking on a distant door
Like a phone ringing in an empty house
A dog barks and barks, receiving no answer.
TREE ORCHIDS
Whose heart would not be hung up
With the orchids when September's
Propellant breath exhales
Flames of sunshine? Then on boughs
Oh, thirty metres removed
From the dark and rotting, golden sprays
Unfurl like the tongues of clarions
Calling to those who pass
To stop, to stand still, to look up.
Brian
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