The pond reflects its
opinion of the poet who
dreams like a collie.
Unlock those gates, throw
open these, drink deeply, airs,
the mountainous blues.
The chapel bell, still,
thoughtful, light pending to day –
embrace, kiss noses.
Six o’clock – last stars,
brave light – dawn treads, uncovers
her eiderdown smile.
His bass voice distant
as drumming, as surf singing
to its Atlantic.
And which choir, and what
instruments, wear harmonies
to match the weavers.
Soft light warms my eye
as I write to angels, these
miracles of faith.
Sunbird pairs repair
the emerald morning light, jink
to butterfly flags.
The drowning mole fell
in the willow weeping pond –
the old monk frowned too.
Weaver industry
is light music – divine voice
and golden angels.
Hadeda rhyming
slang, Muscovy harmonies,
tarantal applause.
Hugh Hodge
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