‘The unwished’

The Silent Era

Dead reeds
rustle at last
bent in
exact lines
arc and snap back
collidiing weatherbands
untractable and unnamed
conserve the integrity
of the winds
herald untimed
movement in the trees
unstudied, loveless

There may be an oasis
or a trap or drapery
for bug continents
scared bioscapes
writhing and sacrificial

the gold and mud
of the reeds is still
a dream
It flashes with other
early memory
That boy is marked out
on an endless field
Its silence rips down
with sordid and violent
images unconscious then, not now
a primal document
then, as now, a lewd
imprisonment
just now, the
quieted delusion
For always,
peace is disturbed.