The swung torch scatters seeds
The intemperate torch grazed
In the umbelliferous dark
With fire the umbel of the dark
And a frog makes guttural comment
The pond-lilies could not stifle
On the naked and trespassing
The green descant of frogs
Nymph of the lake

The symbols were evident
We had not heeded the warning
Though on park-gates
That the iron birds creaked
The iron birds looked disapproval
As we swung the park-gates
With rusty invidious beaks
Their beaks glinted with dew

Among the water lilies
A splash – the silver nymph
A splash – white foam in the dark
Was a foam flake in the night
And you lay sobbing then
But though the careful winds
Upon my trembling intuitive arm
Visited our trembling flesh
They carried no echo

an Ern Malley compilation

Read the rest of Overland 223

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