Yeats' Tower Hill (almost)

GHOST-SHIP

The long year closes on snowfall,

finally.  Over the ridge

to the Witch’s Hat, a ledge

over Arthur Ave. (#33 - les

jeux sont faits, John Berryman).

My father’s flinty ashes

by the creek, that washes

through my mother’s thoughts.  A man,

c’est tout.  Her lacquered plate

of autumn gold (Yeats’

Tower Hill, almost)

shines for the poet now, like fate.

A circle, fiery wheel of light...

Apollo’s chariot,

or Noah’s boat... a plot

of Plotinus, from cloudy height

of thunderherd – heart-mirth

of chuckling Apollinaire

(his swaddled head a pear

donated to interstellar 4th

or 14th (Q) Juillet).  The pattern

gold, shot through by fencing

needles, under the glancing

plectrum of wind-beaten mast.  Stern

heights & forthright gunnel-curves

of one gaunt ghost-ship

surging through the deep –

one orange alba-ange flares (swerves).

12.30.15