family poetry

there is a country full of wine
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
the poets tell
beneath my window in a city street
blossoms of babies
a bird sang
with the meek, brown eyes
she limps with halting painful pace
shadows lay along broadway
see, from this counterfeit of him
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
there is no flock, however watched and tended
soft as the bed in the earth