C. H. Sisson
Seed-time
Pinpoint seed or seedling I cannot tell which
So deep I look past the petalled leaves
Which once swayed for me as all
So deep
There can be no exchanges or crossed winds
Recognition is one-sided, I am invisible
Or should be, husk of myself.
So a bonfire burns and one looks into it
Fallen ash, green houses
Sticks
Charred till they whiten and the winking lights
Move round the bole.
There could be no meeting again on this earth
In any furrow or perhaps anywhere
Seed-time is a tear-drop carrying the eye
Into the interior of the womb, where hope lies
Crouched for its disappointment.
Page(s) 45
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