Busy today in Fontegaia-land...


Strange mourning dove hidden somewhere behind me
this evening fluting her clay ocarina inconsolable
blue-grey counterpart to all the cheery warblers
and chatterers a low woodwind in minor key

lonely What do you want, heavy-hearted little bird?
You have your mate somewhere, I'm sure
you have the bird-feeder and the June weather
Time, time... you're moaning Time hoarded

kept close within your somewhat tubby frame
keeping time & this minor key, this mournful note
must have another counterpart, your saturnine
urn its jovial mead-cup true end and aim

of such drawn-out, repetitive, lengthy, endless complaint
O ever-despised, lonesome, no-count heart (slate
tablet's plum-robed sentinel) of yearning earth!
My brooder, there in the shade - muttering, faint!

You chant your dirge just as you do in the window
of the town hall in Siena and this evening
your meaning came clear through to me (wings
of seraphim bear similar sign) it is to know

is to love to love is to know (beckoning
mote in the eye of Magdalen) there is no more
than this
this is the source of that obscure
slow semaphore absent moon-fountain (morning,

) elusive water too clear to see
only rightly seen in simplicity
foundation sure of every
spectral fresco of good governance & free

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