- JAN OWEN
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Freesias
-
- Two sceptics at odds may cancel
out
- like minus signs, to say Why
doubt?
-
- See where I’ve planted the
Snowdon corms
- between the stones. Too
shallowly: the leaves
- splay out, bent to a world of
wind,
- we tread the green flames
unawares.
- September will turn us –
Ah! Japanese,
- the air round their creamy cups
spreading a covenant,
- Sadness-Joy. Like wind chimes
touching the edge of song,
- or a small high window’s
mouthful of sky.
- Breathe in their fragrance now,
- the rush of yes but, if, maybe,
-
- till the ghostly sacs of the
lungs swell out
- and airiest Other floods the
brain. You too, Martin,
- come back into the sun, I have
picked you a percept, here –
- a straggly bouquet of Being,
quite unconcealed,
- and it knows you, bronchiole and
cell,
- it is soothing the labyrinth to
a safety net,
- calming the rivers of blood as
they leave and arrive.
- Would you say it’s beyond
the play of beyond,
- this scent – the hint of a
universe drifting apart
- like philosophy’s fine
dissolve?
-
- Almost unbearable sweetness
anyway.
- Almost thought.
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