The Nightwind
The nightwind is dancing with the leafless trees
under a new moon
as if they were crutches
that couldn't keep up with its moves.
April night.
All potential.
Lilac month in the valley
and blue hyacinth soon
in the corners of forgotten yards
and for the first time today
down by the Tay where the willows
are going blonde
that bruise of a flower
that looks like a cross
between a broken egg and the moon.
A crocus
like a dab of violet paint
in the foreground of a drab impression.
The apple-trees are waiting for their brides like blossoms.
Saturn's in Virgo
and I'm out for stars
on my hobby-horse of a telescope
that's jealous of the easel I paint on
because it thinks it's the unheralded genius
and can do more with light
than that other moron.
More Copernicus for the moment
than van Gogh
I cut through fields
that look like November all over again
now that the snow's gone
to keep from being blinded
by the blazing of the town
attentive as a doe to the barking
of distant farmyard dogs.
I'm a one man band of snapping twigs
and slashing branches
moving deeper into the silence
away from windows and doors.
My telescope sneers at the vanity
of birches posing in the nude
because they've heard I'm a painter
into feminine nocturnal effects.
And I've been here before
looking for suitable subjects
but tonight I'm out for stars
and the wounded mystery of being alone
in a place that everything's adapted to
but where nothing feels it belongs
to judge by the way they keep to themselves.
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
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