No One Knows The Colour Of A

The Fallen Hazel-nuts, Stripped Late Of Their Green Sheaths, The Grapes, Red-purple, Their Berries Dripping With Wine, Pomegranates Already Broken, And Shrunken Fig, And Quinces Untouched, I Bring Thee As Offering.

When The Shingles Hissed In The Rain Incendiary, Other Values Were Revealed To Us

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

For You Are Abstract, Making No Mistake, Slurring No Word In The Rhythm You Make, The Poem, Writ In The Air.

The Whole White World Is Ours.