a tadpole dance with he who cannot sing

a tadpole dance with he who cannot sing

among the reeds with plants of little care.

the twelve have gone

now shades of dissapointment stumble free;

noontide as strong as all who care to show

a longing for; a stain beneath the eye;

 

too late to gather prayer

now gods of wood march cheerfully ahead

to wars of unattended anecdotes

through a cloud of void more impodent than he;

 

too many hands of clay 

crawling loveless; dead as only death himelf knows how;

where are they now?

the dead that once gave seed to pastures new.

one penny both their pendulum and pit;

 

meridian moods of constant praise be gone;

am happiest in the company of  Plath.

share her comic accident of birth.

and tolerate the humour of a worm;