Agapanthi—

Your Violet glance fingers our consciousness
Taps the blue wells of pain, the saline urgency
Of self-pity.

From the summer garden your vague
Catfeel-of-darkness reveals the sense
Paws of little guilt tease into spasms
Us and our rose-frail masculine courage.

It is not you we fear, but your time-lessness
Your corrosive silence.
Coming late as you do, you find real,
Only our China wall crumbling upon us
The piteous pluck of departing blossoms
down fell tunnel
The exploded grief,
You are the waxen image of our boredom
Like tall anaemic girls you find oppressive
The crude love poem of the sun the world's grim grammar
You operate for the Christ-seed
Immune to all who bear
The enormous indictment of tears.