Abstract Poems

	The Flowers Have Gone As if the cry and canvas poetry of fifty men Strung out like beads across the plaza's cool Could mask the falling flutter and gunshot Of greenbacks, waltzing answers in the air Here is the boot-polish black of a baton Sniggered slyly, its swish of trailing breath Dank behind the smugly broken wishbone Proselytes and their sweet, telephonic smiles There, the soft smoke of a different paper Once understood and feared for its fight Pluming its tissue coils of prismatic colour Its ash silently burying a million thoughts There it dapples the private hope of prayer Into rainbow quivers that shift each hour And snuggled deeply in the nook of pain The sweet air of the native softly dies © David Incoll 2001
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