Dreams fled away, this country bedroom, raw With the touch of the dawn, wrapped in a minor peace, Hears through an open window the garden draw Long pitch black breaths, lay bare its apple trees, Ripe pear trees, brambles, windfall-sweetened soil, Exhale rough sweetness against the starry slates. Nearer the river sleeps St. John's, all toil Locked fast inside a dream with iron gates. Domestic Autumn, like an animal Long used to handling by those countrymen, Rubs her kind hide against the bedroom wall Sensing a fragrant child come back again - Not this half-tolerated consciousness That plants its grammar in her yielding weather But that unspeaking daughter, growing less Familiar where we fell asleep together. Wakeful moth wings blunder near a chair, Toss their light shell at the glass, and go To inhabit the living starlight. Stranded hair Stirs on still linen. It is as though The black breathing that billows her sleep, her name, Drugged under judgement, waned and - bearing daggers And balances--down the lampless darkness they came, Moving like women : Justice, Truth, such figures.
http://www.irishwriters-online.com/kinsella-thomas/
Thomas Kinsella reads some of his own poetry....enjoy
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