Scent and Sensibility
Rye … Cinq Port without sea, a magic hall
of forest stillness before the felling of trees
crafted, loved to this oil haunting presence
they became; high up, the measured arc of
pendulum controls its clock’s reply – sweet
talking to reconnect me to a half imagined
place where lifetimes ago, sentience began.
At midnight of a dream, the first of grey...
the very first, in multi shades of silence of
dew printed pad in forever forest, nothing
disturbed in the night’s stealthy narrative;
grey flows separately now; a spit off shore
lake freezing round them, silhouetted bear
with cub. Lighter now grey settles to wait.
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