An Acmeist Oeuvre â€“ Muse from the Mountain
Wild fruits fall once again and time
Passes its orcharding. Leaves,
Their shape like hieroglyphs,
Make little of the future.
Where is ‘the golden child’ – the one
Who inherited my uppermost branches?
Who swayed and sang
As only innocence can? Perhaps
Now flown... and past recall! Past
The old vibrancy
Of a lover’s gaze – stepped out – over
Grief’s cleft and into another.
Utterances from a distant star:
They’re shooting hearts
Into the frost of space.
It’s no more than a rumour
... Something to
Lead it away
From the self without self.
A horizontal shriek
This lost horizon. It is
Not my kin, my valuable! My love lies
Beneath the pressed foliage.
The brown earth.
The departing seasons.