Tell me you’ ll be hail that patters against my windowpane, Be vivid ferns swaying in the breeze that talks, Be squirrels who pick at gravelled ground for grains. My mother is there in many forms, sleeping or waking, She will be close by, for worse, for better, like the moon waning, Sometimes full, sometimes empty, constantly saving.
Soil and Ground
Take a walk down Thornhill Road, To feel depressed and alone.
Shards of pottery, Pale with deceased fingerprints, Lie buried in blistered Earth.
Where an old man mutters, To the fox with human teeth.
Here— Nothing reminds me of Keats.
Shards of pottery, Bone-pale in shadows, Lie buried in blistered Earth.
Warning chirps, From magpies with moulting eyes.
Here— Nothing.
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