I have a posy of wild freesias
in a little antique glass inkpot in my room
and they are stinking the place up
without a care in the world.
How can I describe their scent?
Green, sweet, honey, yeast?
What’s remarkable is a couple of them can
stink a room out. They are hard arse.
OVER HERE BEES!
I am a bit of a bluebird
(no I mean Bluebeard)
when it comes to freesias.
I must have the first of them
in my chamber.
I woke up this morning from a dream
in which someone was singing
“the Titanic sails at dawn”.
I was curious and puzzled away
until I could work out
what was going on.
“Desolation Row”– of course – by Dylan.
This city in which I live has to some extent
become a Desolation City.
I had always thought that desolation would somehow
be more personal (with literary references)
more exquisite and consummate
and not quite so damn desolate.
NOVEMBER 9TH, 2020 / POETRY