348

Pelican (Stag), 2004

Stride, dunkler Held, through
The cobalt-grey overflow
Of daylight between palms :
No room here for timidity or
Complaint, no room than for
The language of the animal
That dies before you, under
Your lance, in the heat of its
Own blood and breath, while
Its last song elaborates, as it
Waits for you to bring it into
Silence. The palms are bold
In their blazon, spilt yoghurt
A callous white, mustard,
Sickening green. Who dress
The trees in such harsh shade?
May be some lower god,
Some insensate servitor, some
Atom out of farthest stars,
Paint them so, thoughtlessly.
You prowl the jungle floor,
Hauling life in with your eyes,
Throwing your hunger upon it.
Go with the spirit : swift, still.
Follow its darker waters there.