SunShine
The rusted fog of Orange
The silence in hillbrows, the bog
Is holding as if the ground will to crags
of stone
Sprawl in a few seconds, a coldness
and roam
All the towns and lonely homes
And tie a terrible string about the garru–
lous stree...
That will lash ardour and choice
convert to one decree.
Though who knew that the same leave
Bear’d wickedness that all joy will
cleave
But god saw the field that did wilt
With purposes and aim and trickery
Once more will honour wield.
(2015)
