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The Seamstress
There is a hot medley It reaches the chimney pots And the aerial arachnids When the buxom sunlight Torches the treetops Sun sucks up life again The love of a grave-robber Pulls each green crown Like some manicurist Pricking sap from rusty nails Last year's floral success Recalls itself in each bloom Desires rise automatic As the earth's orbit Cloaked in necessity Wheedles its ellipse Races slyly towards Its apogee in a waltz Of tuneful dervish Thousand mile spins You can't hear it but Deep underground surges The twist of fate's knife The vast drain of water Deep into the reservoir © David Incoll 2001 |
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Copyright by David Incoll 2001 |