the winter was, with blades
of ice
over Hackney Road,
there,
several times, a Chinese opera perfection
you might have lost, later, in the ground of the general —
the blossoming of things
from their stems out — [mistaking
for the old winter
the new growth frozen, by a glance too brief
to catch the shift] had we not seen
these lantern pearls; these sky-blue filigrees
of steel:
walking Sunday from Spitalfields,
, white
wings, all this laddering
of layers: no copper joint holds heaven
here to all that falls, this imprecise
colourfield
of broken walls; near Albion Drive, this purple
skyburst of climbing herbs.
(Something like the song)
Cabbage roses
or the moon.
& pollen in the air.
This also the way home;
the boughs are low
and you must crawl,
you
feel the dust. Of itself, you are
dust. Of iron, stars. wherever
where the dust is from:
a fault in the nothing
weighs down the light.
love, tell me again, what it is
we know & do not know.
these leaves, since
late September
heaped, are thrown —
love given, against the
chill of this season:
what this place, made bonfire-lit for this occasion
serves between
[ is suddenly shown.
