"Thinking of rodhodendron forests in Piccadilly"
(Virginia Woolf)
"In broad nightlight
tonight
conversing with the realm of darkness
my words have taken in the colour
of rhododendrons
bordering late-blooming paths,
abandoned castles,
mossy bridges where the crows
land and brood at sundown.
In broad-dimming nightlight
shall not come the moths
to flit around the tired splendour
of my words,
words tinged with the pale pink
through which, oftentimes,
the faces of memory
entice Hebe into the forest of Elvedon,
faces as pure as the stork flight at dawn,
faces that whisper me with voices
of blue-girl in darkness...
this is you around, Percival
this is you, Rhoda?.
faces that mutter me beyond any matter
through a seraphic language
of wave or ringdove.
And I whisper back to them
like buttlerflies smouldering
in the candle flame to be ashes"
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