Andrew David Dalby
Andrew David Dalby Poems
This season is full of secret hints: of mustard spiced tints,
Which wrestle between the steps of rusted slow-dancing.
It is a secret, sacred space, where the night fingers of crows,
Stretch out in slowly expanding, ever circling swirling curls;
-Their murderous chatter, so lively and so violently explodes-
Upon this: the finite and ever dwindling fingers of the dusk.
Here, I'm tripping, while blood is slowly dripping, from heavily
Veined trees, whose pulsing green, of a laced summer scene,
Is now near almost lost to a fragile -near forgotten- dream…
So, I'm ...
I close my eyes and the lake comes to mind:
Its silver hue, flat expanse extends onward,
Into what seems an eternal; yet is refined,
By thick mists sweeping, rolling now forward,
That is made by soft energy, simply defined.
And through the cold, crystal clear water,
Are -hard seen- large orbs of mitered stones;