I
From the spinning
Circles that cross
Heaven and Hell,
Down the skies,
Between the branches,
The iron routes,
Across the leaves,
Between the rocks,
The weeds and brick dust;
Un-noticed they
Fall and run:
The too-casual
Drops of history.
II
This is the placid hour
Of the fumble-flying moths.
Day’s-eye stars are closing;
The honeybee’s purple
Pincushion, nectar and pollen palace
Is become medieval slate mace.
Clusters of early autumn berries
Constellation-spin above:
Monochrome peace
Has come to visit.
23/8/2013
