Form is, can be, liberating in its constraints. This may not be ready, I should perhaps have worked on it longer, but I feel inclined to jump in anyway, kick start myself into poetry again. This morning was something springlike, and I felt moved to walk the camera in the garden (except the fritillary, which is on the windowsill and came as a gift from A. who came to lunch yesterday. Roast chicken and potatoes, glazed carrots, stuffing, cherry sherry trifle, all a Sunday lunch should be...). I've put pics and poem together, whether appropriately or not I don't know.
Leaves and earth, chocolate and iodine brown,
decay and comfort, dullness, depth and sorrow,
longing for life, but draws the spirit down.
"I'll grab and grasp, beg or steal or borrow
just let me live!" She asks
too much, or nothing, waits for a green tomorrow.
With webs of mingled threads she masks
the worm-wrought woodwork, powdering stone
pours rotting matter's liquor into dusty flasks,
fingering the last left relics, shell and bone,
and numb and shameless, knows she'll be alone.