Circe (_honeyspider) wrote in __aeaea,


A dandling light and the world sings tremolo;
Even the grass, grown soulful, hangs its head
Over the prim winks of its daisies. Low
In a bush a blackbird trills then chirps instead.

And an old myth tries to heave itself to its feet:
The phoenix newly feathered in the east
Takes wing, blundering; and Phoenix not so fleet
Comes cantering after it, but comes at least.

And the dank grass is tangled with the song
Squirmed from a blackbird by the probe of light:
The hush is over....It will not be long.
Phoenix and blackbird. Bear it without spite.

Only a beauty with no rouge of myth
Walks plain in the plain field. Her decent hand
Will give you a meaning you can wrestle with;
Something to die of, not to understand.
Tags: norman maccaig

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