Drops

             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
seaholly

Is become medieval slate mace.
Clusters of early autumn berries
Constellation-spin above:
Monochrome peace
Has come to visit.

23/8/2013

The Currency of Clowns.

Small, frail shapes

Flitting,

Cursor fast

And confident:

Through woodbine tunnels

In the elf-shine hours, navigating

Between moon nectar cups

 And scent promise blossoms.

Stakes are mortality-high

But the brief-held prize Is so,

So gloriously worth it

That resistance is the

Currency of clowns.

The gods who created moths

Never intended them to

Grow old and feeble.

MothsAtNight72

 

Image: www.jennacartwright.com

26/7/2013