One Poem by Stephen Kingsnorth

Wisteria

Why
fall in love
with hanging blooms,
racemes pale-grape brevity,
butterfly short-display flutters by,
as if impatient to die,
fresh petals gone,
mocking me,
rattle.

My eyes saw a honeyed cottage,
dappled, amethyst necklace
about its frames,
against skin,
shy,
retiring, hidden
in exhausted deafened city,
panicked termites, nothing spare
would not dare lift, for pause, then stare.

Lanterns,
whose searching
flex, trailing snake resents
control, direction, overnight whips out,
secret lashing, dawn regret, fail day-search modesty,
some frilly flouncing debutante,
beauty in stroppy staggering
bout, pollen drunk,
maudlin.

 

Stephen Kingsnorth, 67, is retired from ministry in the Methodist Church, living in north Wales.

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