TROUT   [5]

Peter Robinson: [1 , 2 , 3 , 4, 5 ]
Useless Landscape
Now that house-plant shoots have hit the ceiling,
ivy bursts through parapet appertures
and pollen fluff seems to float on sullen air,
it must be time to take account
of thoroughfares pasted with false friends
or follow through habituated eyes
gaps between leaf clusters, how the land lies
athwart my expectations, loves, bad feeling.

With dusk and long distance concealing
children grown like a well-pruned rosebush,
months of everyday solitude
(nearer, nearer than the sound of blood
beating through one inner ear)
choke up the sources, run to seed, feeling.

By country club and golf course, unappealing
concrete towers return no echo -
not even clock digits staining them with rust;
repainted, white arrows at corners
gone round each weekday cannot recall
how anyone weathered these surfaces,
surfaces which won't weather themselves -
cast, enameled, fired to resist
any worn smooth patches, patina, any feeling.


  © 1998