I heard those bells' high sea-rose call--
five senses tingled-- my ten fingers danced
& through a sunken constellation--greenish metal--
came & planted in my house your calm expanse.
Low celandine is for the eyes & pennyroyal
soothes the roiled brow; Ophelia's rue
floats upon the tide, & Denmark's rotten apple
rules by her side at last in Hades now.
The earth instinct with vision steals away
our term of life (careless carouse or sensual feast,
unwound) yet still that muffled melody,
that sea-borne stem of chorded combers, vast
rolls back to me (like wind through anonymous
cedars, deep in northern woods) a woman's voice.
Henry Gould | Island Road 78
Contents | Mudlark No. 6