Ah, then, but to heart the morning bell in silent hours
having writ thee upon the strand of still waters
among a thousand farewells my shipwrecked dreams,
of fair weather days in the mellowing spring,
beside the oak, some dry leaves of book in autumn!
away from e’ery departed look of wrinkled lip
in my spilt words her stumbled feet upon the sand dunes:
of fealty’s Apollo at my door this world all woe,
besmeared with time my sweet-scented letters in rosemary garden,
where crickets sing in melodious accents I, I under the Archangel’s brow,
hung aloft the ghastly night still musing o’er the dale,
a broccoli, beneath the bed of crimson joy, a table, a chair,
not least can move me more in thy presence alone,
be made new of yoke too dear in yellow pages of history
along the pavement of cow parsley her night-long love,
needest not in nurslings of immortality thy iron car at Matilda’s farm
against this fedora of yore dream in the late evening.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Saturday, 30 July, 2016. 3: 46 P.M