DESIGNS

Fields of black tulips

And swarms of gold bees

Drinking their bitter honey.

Above the gnarled old tree

That clings to the bleakest side of the mountain,

A torch of ivory and gold;

And across the sky,

The silver print

Of spirit feet,

Fled from the wonder.

The glowing anvil,

Beaten by the winds;

Star sparks,

Burning and dying in the heavens;

The furnace glare

Red

On the polished palm leaves.

A little white thistle moon

Blown over the cold crags and fens:

A little white thistle moon

Blown across the frozen heather.