The dissolution of bones
Who is to say
that a poem that grows
in the mind
is an abstract creation
if indeed that word
has any meaning
and abstracted from what
one might ask
Does the rose not grow
in its mineral bed
secretly building the beauty
of its texture and colour
until ready to present itself
in all its glory
A congery of particles
in the smallest branch / plant
fern and roots that nervously
delve into the depths of the earth
and all things prosper in the warmth
and retreat or die in the dead of winter
Experience isolated and observed
picked over and measured
and raised in words that are
as pincers in the scientific cage
Othello’s handkerchief a specimen
examined in the Shakespearean frame
Duncan lives on but for a perverse prayer
Caesar dies in the cold doing of the deed
Flakes of snow alight
on an impressionist canvas
reality revealed in oils
thinned with turpentine
and in every gesture
a remembrance of the destiny
of flesh and blood
the hue and cry of complaint
in the wilderness and love
the single solitary comfort
John Lyons