The Poetry Evening

Structured in immensity, trees, inclining, old,
Standing like guardians of futurity, listening,
As on the air we fling our words and poems.

The air itself, laden with scents of summer,
Swallows our words as though they’re merely gnats,
And ears take in the sound but not the sense, hearing
A different music in the night.

Wine drowns the feelings in a false euphoria,
We act. we play, but in our poetry
We show our dreams.

Darkness absorbs pretension and pomposity,
So shall we now speak truth? If we dared
Would our masks fall broken about us,
Like splintered glass?

If through communication revelation surged
Throughout the shadowed landscapes of the mind,
Our tenebrous images might pierce the mist
Like candles lit at midnight.

We can only lie, limp on the heat stained grass,
Awaiting with a hesitant fearful awe
The authentic magic.

At last the enchantment comes, a voice
Speaks, with the certain muse, of hills, of mines,
Of horses, crags and streams, of loss and longing,
Deep silence fills the night,

Applause, softly then rising, our host
Brings lights and pours more wine. His lady
Steps barefoot across the lawns. Delight
Ripples in smiles and laughter. Merriment
Echoes and bounds against the grey stone walls.
The feast is laid, a crush of jewel hued dresses
Cluster against white tables. Magenta wine
Reflects the gold of yellow cheeses, salad greens
Are emerald bright next to the amber bread,
Blazoning the dusk with colour.

When all have gone, a darker shade of night
Reclaims the sleeping garden.


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