This wood burns a dark
Incense. Pale moss drips
In elbow-scarves, beardsFrom the archaic
Bones of the great trees.
Blue mists move overA lake thick with fish.
Snails scroll the border
Of the glazed waterWith coils of ram’s-horn.
Out in the open
Down there the late year
Posted on Tuesday 1st May 2012 with 4 notes
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