* * *
I have forgotten what I had to say.
The blind, clipped swallow will fly back
To where the shades dwell, and together they
Will dance and sing a mad night song.
There are rooks within the wood and their daft syllables
Deny all measure. The horses’ manes are clear as glass.
An empty boat drifts in the dried up river.
Among the grasshoppers the word lies stunned.
And slowly grows, as though a tent or church,
Then flings itself like wild Antigone,
Then falls as a dead swallow at my feet
With Stygian softness and a sprig of green.
Mortals have power to love and to recognise,
For them pure sound is poured through slender fingers.
But I have forgotten what I have to say,
And fleshless thought returns to dwell with shades.