Poems that owe their existence to dreams for a reason I cannot identify seem to be more musical in their language and rhythms than others. Does that say something about the core intention of poetry anyway to express a feeling and a mood with sound and melody?
There is a bird that comes with the fog;
under-cover he glides and wheels overhead.
Like the mist he seeps in from the sea:
his shape as unfamiliar as the familiar
forms enveloped in his strangeness.
Only patient, troubled eyes will discern
his presence; perceive the figures
he describes.
In the time of trooping
men ascending the abandoned slopes;
the time of heaving shoulders against
coils of vapour; you must use the creeping
mist to tune your ears – then you will
hear the manifold exhalation – see the bird.
He rides the mists like a veteran;
hovering on currents of grass-breath:
on the sighing of the fog-marchers.
Yes, the bird has come again.
