THE POOL
THERE is a pool Silent, dark and still, It holds the patterns of the trees The polished lacquered traceries Until a whimpering breeze Breaks the design at will.
And through those waters dart Eyeless fish and blind, Some silver coloured as a star Or crimson as a bloody scar, Sinister their beauties are Like mad thoughts in the mind.
Stranger than scaly thing Or imaged leaf, I see myself a shadow there, The fish are gliding through my hair My dull eyes have a fixed stare Drowned in the pool of grief.
LARKSPUR
OUT in the garden as you played, A breeze moved to and fro Across my bed of larkspur In grave adagio.
The wind with touch most delicate, Went up and down the scale— Wine-dark, frail amethyst, and blue, Blue as Our Lady’s veil.
You played softly to yourself, Your brown hands on the keys; And God with larkspur, You with sound, were making harmonies.