When I smell the red red rose, do I,
Hear the rosy baby cry, do I?
Baby’s pricked by hatred of the lie
And, while pricks don’t make me want to die,
Good die younger and greats live on:
Kneel unneeded, die, no song,
All the shadows gently long:
I’m no longer sure what’s wrong.
The meadow is nothing without my complaint:
The grass leaves too high or too wet.
Regardless fall sparrows, I’m too young for sight:
Whole forests without my regret.
God is departing after all this time.
Heaven’s choir-shape left after all this time.
Laughing at my own hosannas this time:
The narcissist pulls on his coat.
Does grace fall with tears or weep at the sight
Does my chest form a cup or a cavern?
Wishing meteors after promised delight
Helps opportunists to govern.
Wishing won’t clear my muddle
Will not make me less awful
Put Jimmy Savile on trial
Or an icon on dial
But it gives me a shovel
And I dig like the devil
Till outside feels like the middle:
It’s not, love, and never will be
So hold onto me.