Monday, May 03, 2010

your hand clenched; the size of your heart

And this is the crux. Tides vary, exact shelvings
Of pebbles on shores don't repeat,
while patterns of clouds
Are never the same, are never patterns. Raindrops,
At unforseen moments run, and weigh, down, minutely,
A million particular grass-blades: movement, movement,
Everlastingly novel shifts of a universe not
Gracelessly ordered, not presided by a setter of
Regulations. Vanity is so sad pretending to represent
Nature with humans dancing. Those who can move need not

Alan Brownjohn