Sunday, May 25, 2014

POEM IN A COLD WINTER

POEM IN A COLD WINTER

A bird's song choked in my throat, I said.
And I saw a tin-whistling billy-goat
when the moon bloomed red as a rose.
And a grey church
with graves and black yews around
that's dead still, except for the sound
of the billy-goat's tune
dancing like laughter in empty rooms.
There was a blue sky, with chanting white clouds,
and a bottomless, sun-high sky that sowed shrouds
on a dead-still earth.
And the whistling shriek from the north-wind's throat
was the cornflower laugh of the billy-goat
dancing in the molten-gold pools of the ancient years
when the moon bloomed red as a rose.

[©1962; publ. in March 62, University of Alberta]

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