I love sheen, floribunda leaves,
bright red-green cushion, perfume, bloom,
but gardener forked, spread dung beneath,
under the rosebush, scattered muck.
When dust seems layered everywhere
and all needs polish, drawing out,
I start, patina, table top,
to reach the waxing moon at last.
So every grey, sad tattered thing,
needs riches drawn – from horse or bee –
that donkey outlaw, label worn,
cut palm fronds, coronation ride.
This fleshy husk needs burnish too,
obese fat folds that ripple still,
just as in cradle cot, pink buff,
a foot, note gloss of baby oil.
And there’s the rub – rejected, old,
as lamp from which the Jinn arose –
for truth is not glazed, varnished dream,
but where rejected meets our need.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over 250 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, including Sparks of Calliope, printed journals and anthologies. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/
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