writing poetry

i see all human wits
though i am little as all little things
noises that strive to tear
my soul is a dark ploughed field
she said
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
the long resounding marble corridors
old wine to drink
gingham dog and the calico cat
when, full of warm and eager love
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges