Before the snow of the city
too soon after Christmas
had three times melted
under the tenderest sewing clouds
all that was audible
was the last island in motion
cascading like a slanting plate
or a discarded crinoline
in the buckled roof of the rain.
The mind does not know
it is counting caustic sands
rushed from solid rock.
The picture hanging over my stove
gradually deepens its bone brown
to a holding back of colour without end
such as prevails at dawn
to older colours where rose
bleaches out and blue suffers.
Dark violet bricks in feathers
on the weather side of a wall:
an airwell on the left wing—
golden crucifixion through which he slept—
which is enough protection in itself,
but emptier than the parish church.