THE DARK GARDEN INSPIRES ME
The garden is alive with magic ears!
The monastic puking of lambs can be heard!
The beck flows on with mellow applause!
The lone car passes again on the road!
The wreckety wreckety wreck of the train
is heard down the village, passing through –
and then Night is quietude once again –
quiet as a snowflake through and through!
Is it a black angel of self-immolation,
this Night that has settled over the land?
Is the day now buried without a mention?
Does sadness gene mean dreaming gland?
I’ve dropped through a door to a new level,
seeking as ever access to a higher plane,
a heightened dream, devoid of the shovel,
where there is no loss and there is no gain…
I would smoke hash, gorgeous pollen
if there were some available, but not skunk,
for it’s man-made, and the western sun has sunken
to its secret junk shop, to its secret junk.