In the last island     of his Lenten mind
in that gray London     of his final shroud
with snow upon his heart     John Donne

had glimpsed     a razor's lucid     edge--of
winter sunlight--&     feathered down his page:

Hell's bruise     & heaven's laws     are wise
& in the halls rose all     in willing praise     &
hills wells skies walls holes--all ways--always
will pause to hear     my sighs     &     tolling bells

& setting down his pen     slowly     at last
his heart     still balanced     between strife & rest

like Prospero     when his dear ding-dong play was done
rose from his island bed     & praised     out loud
Love's wonders--once so lost     & now     at last     rewon.

Henry Gould | Island Road 95
Contents | Mudlark No. 6