the codes of Shostakovich musically speaking...
a person said to me rather like moonlight inverted
the bole of the tree inside out
an anguish of leaves falling an autumn already spent
weeping of flowers namely thy chrysanthemums, the mint from a foreign garden
rubbles for the rubied teas the Rubicon beyond me
those bronzes and lilacs the violins stretched to breaking
how shall I count the hours with no heart remaining to me
without the hour glass of music and the looking glass set free
where shall my soul slip through, ceding its pearls
what crevice for this neglected bloom
that droops and falls in no wind at all compared with
the lilacs the bronzes of the chrysanthemums they leave no
perfume to be traced
while old newspapers inciting old arguments
skirl on the winds.and are gone.
mary angela douglas 3 september 2020
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