A Landscape for Wyn Henderson
Were made were not for lament for sore melodious grief were not
Were fashioned from the fox's brush tomato's heel were given
Should footfall step on mountainside would come to grief by tortuous ways
Were made for fertile valleys
So high and perilous grows despair were not for you
But wind as tasty as a seaman's cheek would stay your hand
And turn your thought to other
No cradle where to rock the head
The worms came through and riddled it
The snails strung slime birds carried off what plumes of it
To garnish rump No spinet left the flax to iron
Remains the Cave the Rock the Tree
Were not for you the avalanche but Cave turned mad with fire
For you the Rock to shape your hand for you the Tree to shelter
I saw the snails curl up like lead I saw the worms expire. The history itself began in a queer enough fashion, commenced " dear Lydia" written in the first of the book, and as if this in itself were not enough there was more for your money — a photograph allowing no mistake with a feather curled over her shoulder. " Dear Lydia" you could say it in a hundred ways to the sight of her and she moved not an eye nor caught a breath in her bosom. The book lay open there with Lydia on it whenever we stepped across the room for a look at the scorpion, and he himself swimming idly about in the glass where he survived — someone at birth had set a face on him, an expression in the fair middle of him, such that he wore or seemed a tall silk hat which was the rest of him as he idly rose or struck the bottom. And for what did the woman keep him if not for her neck when she was feeling hasty. There would he be so obliging as to draw off her anger. A leech, said Scathewell. A scorpion, I could not call it less than. If you'd step into the closet, said Scathewell, I could show you a scorpion for fair. Right here in broad daylight, said I, I'll show you what a clout on the ear is. When you've given me enough of them, said he, I can make a rosary of them. What could be easier! But once your hand was up to strike him, then you fell to caressing. He wore a scorpion next his skin for his love was the Virgin. A scapular, he said. A scorpion, said I, it was the best I could do with it. But to see him in pants going towards school but never to it, with books to his back and another thought in him. To school, to school you will and thence. I respect you more, I said to his back disappearing towards learning, in skirts as choirist. This dilly-dallying with trousers dividing the proud carriage of, or fretting with girls I will not. I'll see you wedded to the scorpion first, said I. The sacristy, said Scathewell. The scorpion, said I. I would not have it other. How answer the curiosity of God or stay the devil, Scathewell, if not in skirts? He swooned in the confessional box and was carried out in transport. His head was light for many days. They took me in to watch it on the pillow. His cheeks were hollow as cups of milk. I'm making a scorpion for you, I said. A scarf, you mean, said Scathewell. I heard his voice die in the room. A scorpion, I whispered.
My love lies here a place grown tired
My love lay down his arms
Now here is Rock to break his heart and sand to blind his eyes with
A marmot's cry to pierce his side
To be not won by lifted foot or hair at fetlock stirring
No use to put but leap in death on whatsoever viper bird
Seek refuge from his teeth set down upon the aching throat and wait
His petals gently jaws in anguish aching
Until the blood no longer thrive
Here grows a thistle to spur his side
Here cries a torrent to chill him
No rest will he have where he's laid him down for weapons spring beside him
how can he stir when he is dead and the rain turned sharp on his weary head
Better far let the grasses grow until they have refreshed him.
Must I be like, then let it be to shepherd met in passing
(to hear women talking amongst each other is enough and to spare to take their flavor from them and lavish it elsewhere
but to hear the small beasts crying at the seasons' gates or the shadow of one hill shouldering upon another, or to give ear to)
The music of their mouths he bore so long in solitude no words remained
(Be still, be still, in silence only can you hear)
His leather swollen as with young, with corpses left of wild mint flower or bones of such
His spirit lucid as a spring
Lay broad an avenue to run before while he turns this or that in search of
So opened to the elements, the young mint damsels wither
Whether for pine or cactus pale grow rarely on this stubborn land
But Cave can arch and Rock sprout fair as heaven
Cloud leaven and rise and Tree reveal its shade
(Be still, the torrent comes)
On castenetting feet the sheep complaining as they cross
The lizards skip to warmth the troating softly dies
(Be still, be still, the twig is bent the Tree is turning)
Were fashioned from the fox's brush tomato's heel were given
Should footfall step on mountainside would come to grief by tortuous ways
Were made for fertile valleys
So high and perilous grows despair were not for you
But wind as tasty as a seaman's cheek would stay your hand
And turn your thought to other
No cradle where to rock the head
The worms came through and riddled it
The snails strung slime birds carried off what plumes of it
To garnish rump No spinet left the flax to iron
Remains the Cave the Rock the Tree
Were not for you the avalanche but Cave turned mad with fire
For you the Rock to shape your hand for you the Tree to shelter
I saw the snails curl up like lead I saw the worms expire. The history itself began in a queer enough fashion, commenced " dear Lydia" written in the first of the book, and as if this in itself were not enough there was more for your money — a photograph allowing no mistake with a feather curled over her shoulder. " Dear Lydia" you could say it in a hundred ways to the sight of her and she moved not an eye nor caught a breath in her bosom. The book lay open there with Lydia on it whenever we stepped across the room for a look at the scorpion, and he himself swimming idly about in the glass where he survived — someone at birth had set a face on him, an expression in the fair middle of him, such that he wore or seemed a tall silk hat which was the rest of him as he idly rose or struck the bottom. And for what did the woman keep him if not for her neck when she was feeling hasty. There would he be so obliging as to draw off her anger. A leech, said Scathewell. A scorpion, I could not call it less than. If you'd step into the closet, said Scathewell, I could show you a scorpion for fair. Right here in broad daylight, said I, I'll show you what a clout on the ear is. When you've given me enough of them, said he, I can make a rosary of them. What could be easier! But once your hand was up to strike him, then you fell to caressing. He wore a scorpion next his skin for his love was the Virgin. A scapular, he said. A scorpion, said I, it was the best I could do with it. But to see him in pants going towards school but never to it, with books to his back and another thought in him. To school, to school you will and thence. I respect you more, I said to his back disappearing towards learning, in skirts as choirist. This dilly-dallying with trousers dividing the proud carriage of, or fretting with girls I will not. I'll see you wedded to the scorpion first, said I. The sacristy, said Scathewell. The scorpion, said I. I would not have it other. How answer the curiosity of God or stay the devil, Scathewell, if not in skirts? He swooned in the confessional box and was carried out in transport. His head was light for many days. They took me in to watch it on the pillow. His cheeks were hollow as cups of milk. I'm making a scorpion for you, I said. A scarf, you mean, said Scathewell. I heard his voice die in the room. A scorpion, I whispered.
My love lies here a place grown tired
My love lay down his arms
Now here is Rock to break his heart and sand to blind his eyes with
A marmot's cry to pierce his side
To be not won by lifted foot or hair at fetlock stirring
No use to put but leap in death on whatsoever viper bird
Seek refuge from his teeth set down upon the aching throat and wait
His petals gently jaws in anguish aching
Until the blood no longer thrive
Here grows a thistle to spur his side
Here cries a torrent to chill him
No rest will he have where he's laid him down for weapons spring beside him
how can he stir when he is dead and the rain turned sharp on his weary head
Better far let the grasses grow until they have refreshed him.
Must I be like, then let it be to shepherd met in passing
(to hear women talking amongst each other is enough and to spare to take their flavor from them and lavish it elsewhere
but to hear the small beasts crying at the seasons' gates or the shadow of one hill shouldering upon another, or to give ear to)
The music of their mouths he bore so long in solitude no words remained
(Be still, be still, in silence only can you hear)
His leather swollen as with young, with corpses left of wild mint flower or bones of such
His spirit lucid as a spring
Lay broad an avenue to run before while he turns this or that in search of
So opened to the elements, the young mint damsels wither
Whether for pine or cactus pale grow rarely on this stubborn land
But Cave can arch and Rock sprout fair as heaven
Cloud leaven and rise and Tree reveal its shade
(Be still, the torrent comes)
On castenetting feet the sheep complaining as they cross
The lizards skip to warmth the troating softly dies
(Be still, be still, the twig is bent the Tree is turning)
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