The hiss of cicadas like steam escaping,
Wild rhubarb white as picked-bones curling
in amongst masses of racing green nettles.
At this distance the motorway sounds
like a wide-load animal grumbling, lowing,
baying to its mate in its seasonless pasture
behind those trees, those gesturing branches
whose solicitous hey! over here! invites us:
Come see the Traffic, you natural-historians!
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2 comments:
I am gratified to see a poem which I can interpret as being influenced by one of my poems (the first one in Sun On the Surface).
It hadn't occurred to me, but I don't doubt you're right ... except that Sun on the Surface is rather better than this.
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