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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