ON THE FRONT
Posted on Thursday 29th April 2010 9:19 am
That bleak December sky, it's as cold
and unanswerable as the plodding logic
of doubt, and schools our unkempt visions
in the levelling rigour of its light.
As I take my stroll this early evening
I walk past illuminations
that like the icons which haunted childhood
are dormant till night comes round again.
Today no cloudscape lures my eye
beyond this solid edge,
or hints at some lost home –
the domain of weird hierarchical choirs.
Greg Freeman
Mon 3rd May 2010 14:19
David, having seen your comments to Cynthia, I can appreciate the subtlety of this poem now. You've mentioned your lapsed faith a few times, and I now realise its importance in your poetry. Maybe if you had flung in a Matthew Arnold/Dover Beach reference we would have got it! I suppose you did really, walking along the seafront. And "weird hierarchical choirs" does sound a bit like "long, withdrawing roar." And many congratulations on your new collection coming out next year, by the way. It must mean a lot to you.