Flotsam
Working late on a Sunday drear
The sky is flat like German beer
Iron-grey, black Russian in patches
Blown away by Dostoyevsky's flashes,
Desperate remedies appear in the mirror,
Look in the pool. Look in the heart of you.
What do I see? A foolish old man looking
At me. The clip and clop of horses
Times ong gone and passed
Lost in the scramble for money. The chimera that will never last.
Double-entendre of greed and fear as the slant-eyed gobeen man draws near
To the magic of the greensward and the patterning of the stars,
To the vestiges of druid-law deep within the heart
Times of mourning and times of dread -
Risen from the sea,
Glimmering with mortality,
But no less dead.
Words fade and fail like coals on a blustery winter's night.
John Marks
Sat 2nd Jun 2018 13:24
To some extent Brian. But many of us 'see' without 'perceiving' what it is we truly see. On the other hand, sometimes we are cursed by seeing too clearly and/or we see what others don't - people like William Blake and his visions - such people used to locked up for being mad:
Sailing to Byzantium
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.