LIMBS FROM THE BROKEN TREES
Limbs from the broken trees are my god’s hair.
Autumn pages are his turning waifs.
Thrones from the throaty earth bow his rule.
Yet the silver juggler is his favourite fool
and red pangs of his startle care
so the blood red shame of him carves him safe.
In the burning flock of cold falls his ash.
Pauper is he, beggar in the streeting frost.
Drunk in the bowery of his blacking frame.
My god in the mouth of a searivering blame.
Accipiter hair is his dying flash
for the winking Abraham Men are always lost.