Delius Poem by Peter Jones

Yes; so it was,
an answer: yes:
even by the orange groves,
trampled by irritable skies
of sharply drawn breaths.
Fingers tap,
and scrape loose moments
from fool’s gold.

Always yes it was;
born of dreams to die;
blind as daisies.
lifted by tumbling pens
over the walls:
freedom for a year and a day,
and the cuckoo sang.

Yes once more;
affirmed the headstone
of your sight,
sat in deckchairs, humming,
deep in the undergrowth of paradise.
Such harmonies to hear;
singing then and ever now.

Yes, and one last time it was,
walking like giants
in the warmth of gods
on fair days;
consecrated in fermenting juice
all around the bombed town.
You would tear at the rubble
to free the trapped sound
before it grew dark:
yes and always.