F.S. Flint

Trees

ELM trees

and the leaf the boy in me hated

long ago --

rough and sandy.

Poplars

and their leaves,

tender, smooth to the fingers,

and a secret in their smell

I have forgotten.

Oaks

and forest glades,

heart aching with wonder, fear:

their bitter mast.

Willows

and the scented beetle

we put in our handkerchiefs;

and the roots of one

that spread into a river:

nakedness, water and joy.

Hawthorn,

white and odorous with blossom,

framing the quiet fields,

and swaying flowers and grasses,

and the hum of bees.

Oh, these are the things that are with me now,

in the town;

and I am grateful

for this minute of my manhood.

Lunch

FRAIL beauty,

green, gold and incandescent whiteness,

narcissi, daffodils,

you have brought me Spring and longing,

wistfulness,

in your irradiance.

Therefore, I sit here

among the people,

dreaming,

and my heart arches

with all the hawthorn blossom,

the bees humming,

the light wind upon the poplars,

and your warmth and your love

and your eyes . . .

they smile and know me.

Malady

I MOVE:

perhaps I have wakened;

this is a bed;

this is a room;

and there is light . . .

Darkness!

Have I performed

the dozen acts or so

that make me the man

men see?

The door opens,

and on the landing --

quiet!

I can see nothing: the pain, the weariness!

Stairs, banisters, a handrail:

all indistinguishable.

One step farther down or up,

and why?

But up is harder. Down!

Down to this white blur;

it gives before me.

Me?

I extend all ways:

I fit into the walls and they pull me.

Light?

Light! I know it is light.

Stillness, and then,

something moves:

green, oh green, dazzling lightning!

And joy! this is my room;

there are my books, there the piano,

there the last bar I wrote,

there the last line,

and oh the sunlight!

A parrot screeches.

Accident

DEAR one!

you sit there

in the corner of the carriage;

and you do not know me;

and your eyes forbid.

Is it the dirt, the squalor,

the wear of human bodies,

and the dead faces of our neighbours?

These are but symbols.

You are proud; I praise you;

your mouth is set; you see beyond us;

and you see nothing.

I have the vision of your calm, cold face,

and of the black hair that waves above it;

I watch you; I love you;

I desire you.

There is a quiet here

within the thud-thud of the wheels

upon the railway.

There is a quiet here

within my heart,

but tense and tender . . .

This is my station . . .

Fragment

   . . . THAT night I loved you

in the candlelight.

Your golden hair

strewed the sweet whiteness of the pillows

and the counterpane.

O the darkness of the corners,

the warm air, and the stars

framed in the casement of the ships' lights!

The waves lapped into the harbour;

the boats creaked;

a man's voice sang out on the quay;

and you loved me.

In your love were the tall tree fuchsias,

the blue of the hortensias, the scarlet nasturtiums,

the trees on the hills,

the roads we had covered,

and the sea that had borne your body

before the rock of Hartland.

You loved me with these

and with the kindness of people,

country folk, sailors and fisherman,

and the old lady who had lodged us and supped us.

You loved me with yourself

that was these and more,

changed as the earth is changed

into the bloom of flowers.

Houses

EVENING and quiet:

a bird trills in the poplar trees

behind the house with the dark green door

across the road.

Into the sky,

the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys

thrust their cowls.

The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain.

No wind;

the trees merge, green with green;

a car whirs by;

footsteps and voices take their pitch

in the key of dusk,

far-off and near, subdued.

Solid and square to the world

the houses stand,

their windows blocked with venetian blinds.

Nothing will move them.

Eau-Forte

ON black bare trees a stale cream moon

hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds.

Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low,

tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram.

Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square;

and round the bend six bullocks come.

A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides

their clattering feet to death and shame.