by Iain James Robb


I think I have experienced this before:

This fractal sigh upon the star-scarped floor,

That makes this concrete mock of valley heath-

Below the traffic lanterns at the door,

Of frigid other flowers lovers ‘queath

None but their eyes to. Like a coralled leaf

There spans again the happiness of masks

That nothing pollinates, the harbinger of masques-

Flourescences of faces joined to stalks,

And twilighters enjoined on whispered walks:

That laugh a while in white ignominy

I cast my eye on no black lanterns see-

No masquers that may ever shore my sea.


And I have nailed myself upon the door

Of fractured spires the lights spill by degree

(By challenges of silence flown before)

On other ires and eyes I slide beneath:

As conjurers slick their sleight and jade their core

To magic-addicts. Preach the iron heath

May not repeal those psalms, that pass no spore:

Refuted like the last lost children's tasks

That raise no lens to what no reader asks-

A laughter left to languish at decree


Of  ‘Fall!' - that blights the eye upon the tree:

The trackless task of maskless Memory.