I see my years of forgetfulness like triumphant fields of poppies,
My laziness a robe,
While spectre-hours drift once again like dreams–
Come back to me the floating petals of a stream,
Red-tongued reluctance holding sleep upon their lips;
Against their will they come,
But still I welcome them;
My life is stiff with ornamental robes
That sense a coronation in the brain.
O memory so soft with velvet-viciousness;
Today my strength is outward iron,
Fame of hand’s applause
For your hand’s petal-red perversity …
(Isobel Stone)
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