a packed, nutritious poem aurally, visually and metaphorically ... none the
worse for its traditionalism.
I'd like it to be set out more spaciously...
Max
Quoting Martin Dolan <[log in to unmask]>:
> Morning settles glumly into afternoon
> and mountains hunch, recalcitrant and dumb
> under a weight of insistent wind.
> In blue-green layers the trees, like chipped paint,
> wait for a sluice of rain, a polishing
> of sunlight. Clouds edge past, bit players
> reluctant to hog the stage. Their chorus
> has no speaking part; they mime commentary
> on the day’s actions, then exit right.
> The wind remains the protagonist, ranting
> and posturing, filling ears with bluster,
> reaching out to squeeze faces with cold.
> There is nothing to be taken from this
> so we turn our backs without applause
> as the wind pushes dusk up the mountains.
>
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