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