The View from the sold house – John Stokes

A high, voice teetering

 

A black and
         yellow eye in a bush
claws into me from red
berries, 
             looking for nightmare, sly

 

truths lived by light,
                                sound
only:  nothing’s imagery of
fright and sinew finds its
own warm use for savagery.

 

A sudden country, this,
                                         where
calls of a black bird
can ring a clarion bell
                                         across
claret, golden ash, heard
over       the Parishes of purple
shadows, cloaked hills
                                    of glaucous
incomprehension, fear greening
                        in benign alcoves

 

A call of memory, no
concept,
             wordless and warning, spells
signifying fruits, spiders, warns,
of a cat’s striped growls
one hope shared among the one
and many flock,
                      the whole
panoply of shrieks and groans

 

triggering a few acuities of
clear days and darkness, small
flick-locked, drummed necessities of the
quickening, reflections off the bell
imitating quick
               joy’s
                                
                        simplicity.    I
see the black and yellow
    eye                it sees back
              at me  I

 

 

am rocked in a trembling cradle.