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