Monday, April 11, 2011

TC: On the Playing Fields



Sunset: photo by andrew pmk, 2005

Cold clear days with a kind of white haze
eternity of thought against

The momentariness of sensation shows
Separation is all there is left to
Enact as the sky of evening closes

On each strained thud of a weary puppet heart
The calm that nature breathes grows large
Colors of an insect’s wing on pale clouds

Serrated and recessive barred
A vapor trail cuts across a star’s reflex
While eastward others now begin to sparkle
And as on the playing fields night conquers

moon floats up cloaked in misty vagary

The blood aswarm with imagined lights


Mount Carleton panorama: photo by andrew pmk, 2005


Peter Greene said...

Dense and musical. I quite like the idea of blood aswarm. Hmmm, written that way, it sounds like a foodstuff, really. Thanks for the poetry! And the photos. I've been enjoying my visit here so far quite a lot.

TC said...

And thanks to you, Peter.

Now that you mention it, blood aswarm almost sounds like a particularly vivid form of marmalade.

(I suppose I was imagining the lights as tiny bugs in the blood. Perhaps you know the feeling.)

Peter Greene said...

re: "tiny bugs" yes, I think I do know the feeling. As marmalade, it would be the devil's own blend.