Now only words in a rhyme,
no more than a name
on a stone,
and that well overgrown –
MAR- -ORIS—;
and wind through a ruined croft,
the door an appalled mouth,
the window’s eye put out;
hours and wishes and trysts
less than the shadows of clouds on grass,
ghosts that did dance, did dance…
and those who would gladly die for love lang deid-
a skull for a bonnie head-
and love itself a metaphor, rose, red.
