Tryst Poetry by Donald Ryburn
|The Anguish of Stone|
".....and the inner midnight lights the tables?"
Yves Bonnefoy, Du mouvement et de l'immobilité de Douve
What motion is this silence?
This absence of cranberries at dawn?
What death do you now run to?
You, woman of infinite festival,
Denied the thickness of our world,
Refused to be reborn on ancient shoreline,
The absinthe now purple with age,
Among rotted stems of violets,
Words buried you with lies,
Your pale arms and legs now the roots of camphor,
A flicker resting in an unknown tree,
Has eaten your heart,
Your hair has become the wind at midnight's window,
A puma has stolen your eyes,
What cries can be heard,
At this dark, silent table?