How high we go who travel in a shadow!
Nor will I fear the arrows of the sun by day
nor terrors of the night-- my general best to show
(as one who sailed to London once) that inwound RI way.
Sometimes I think I'm more than halfway there
when swallows tear across the firmament
& pollen quivers in the pregnant air
& comely palms exude an anchored scent--
I think of one whose 52nd year
revolves around again a blooming almond staff
& orbic Jubilee-- out of the mournful sere
of autumn-lying earth a greenish leaf
is born... a festive lion laughs! He's
rolling on that floor where all his thorns are chaff!
Henry Gould | Island Road 77
Contents | Mudlark No. 6