below the decked black clouds
the upper reaching moor shines emerald now
lit by the slashing sun
between the rain soaked rungs
of the ladder bent above
without rainbow or climbing feet
the raw bouldered hanging cliff
yellow in the evening state
stripped to demerara soft
to mock their hardness and their weight
as all melt away at night
to their beds again they go
but those of us unsure tarry
stuck between our choice
of forward into bliss
of fake delay for hope to kiss
those we made
and those we love
for whom we wait above all others
we hang limp in willow wishes
for livid life taunts and sneers
back becomes
but back and how
in this place meaningless
a dimension all encompassed
all at once
and not at all
where should I wish to be a raven
I might just as easy be its call
resonate across the valley
until my legs in tiredness cease
or be breathed into a sheep
or tugged within an oaken trunk
dragged between the roots and heaven
to be blown without regard
for that craw from which I flew
and yet to see the grazing sheep
who like me are limbo laden
between the field and the gate
that opens for death
and when we slip beyond that door
where everything commends us
only memory remains
sweet as roasted lamb
for what we have become
now we lay beyond 'I am'
it is this realm of one for the road
when halfway through the glass
we think of home
and that fancy gossip we will impart
until we drink our draft
and all the night blurs slow
as we swell large our clever brightness
loud we crow
and small we love
against our belted passing time
then home we go
all thoughts clean wiped
cold shouldered for our fool talk
squeezed dry as sand in an eye
without a cup or trophy
The Blue Book
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