syrinx


see the shadow sprawl at four o’clock
that prints upon the new-mown lawn.
here the procession of syrinx
with silent pipes forever play
beneath scorched olives
consumed by frost fires
of barbarian winters
leaving twins ghost only
haunting the green.

a pinprick of formaldehyde
about the scapula pierces me.

‘old age is a bugger,
my father used to say,
and he should know,
he should know,
i look and think
what a mess,
is there nothing
to be done with it?
nothing?’

the ceremony still unfolds
from it’s sweet repose,
the music of the pipes still i hear,
sweep on sweet song.
she, is always sappho,
her girls about her,
the music,
a chiming of the heart
down the years,
harmonic leaps of longing
living in the stillness
of memory,
and the mighty god,
imagination.
here it lives, the never was,
the could have been,
this is the music of the broken clock,
the antique frieze upon the wall,
the gilded life all but past,
the forever, once,
and never.

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