Wednesday, 18 September 2013

Bitten by visions of Virgil




Bit by bit, don't
bite into my influenza,
scrape and turn your shawl -
does it bring work to your heart ?
trenchant fear, subjective and near -
flax and twine,
aphid nectar, walnuts and Syrian wine
while next it tastes tenderly as 
sawdust and lime

Content with the morrow, 
which is wearier than old ale
crushed grapes of matchless sorrows,
the myth on evening's horizon
(of horizon's menu)
Could you give any figs as you sit here,
blooming rooms, hearths sputtering all hours
In unison minds 
married to the hereafter

Quickly, and plaintive through
churlishly lithe, 
I find your swines swimming
on the riverside with my swans
But do not let us quarrel any more



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