Still swans swim in a dust of
dark,
the fretted cheeks of enemy swords
kiss on today’s newsprint;
discoloured jelly moulds, crazed
with age,
cup once busy air and hold it
still;
quiet, careful china, blue and
white,
lies sulky and ashamed, not among
friends;
bewildered pictures hang uneasy,
eyeing each other,
remembering an old respectability,
fearing exposure to indifferent
sun,
valued only for their frames;
bees are snared for ever on dead
honey-pots
and, veined in staring white,
the dark rough cabbage leaves
are curled and cold as yesterday;
old woods lean on shadows,
glasses fill with time,
spiders spin out silence...
(October,
1990)
