Monday, June 19, 2006

scattered seed-pods

There were sea-horses and mer-men

and a flat tide-shelf,

there was a sand-dune,

turned moon-ward,

and a trail of wet weed

beyond it,

another of weed,

burnt another colour,

and scattered seed-pods

from the sea-weed;

there was a singing snail,

(does a snail sing?)

a sort of tenuous wail

that was not the wind

nor that one gull,

perched on the half-buried


nor was it any part of translatable sound,

it might have been, of course,

another sort of reed-bird,

further inland;

inland, there was a pond,

filled with water-lillies;

they opened in fresh-water

but the sea was so near,

one was afraid some inland tide,

some sudden squall,

would sweep up,

sweep in,

over the fresh-water pond,

down the lilies;

that is why I am afraid;

I look at you,

I think of your song,

I see the long trail of your coming,

(your nerves are almost gone)

your song is the wail

of something intangible

that I almost

but not-quite feel.

- "The Poet", H.D.

I want to write with this kind of mystery...

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