I miss some splendid otherness
as on the pond
the sun comes up.
A lonesome distant frog chirrups.
Mystic fingers—
spiked with light—
play like fiddles on the water.
Am I never going to fall in love
again?
Sensible men are still in bed.
The city’s face is still with sleep
as through the fog a song
repeats. At my side
half empty bottle,
fallen coppers,
golden weeds in disarray,
a crumpled angel where I lay and
on a stump
my rumpled shadow.
Disgusting Love that makes the heart
so weak and vile.
Oh wonderful Love the strength and
Truth.
Stupid, useless, excellent Love,
I miss your splendid otherness,
I need to feel your fingertips
or else I’ll drink you
clean away.
Ian David Arlett
image Albrecht Durer
Peterborough Poets 