1.
Pastoral.
The rabbit listens, and
Hearing no sharp sounds,
No thrashings in air,
Moves deftly, swiftly
With no trick, no fear,
Into the wind flecked lace
Of the meadow;
He savours the cold spring morning;
The sobs of the streams are music to his ears;
His leaps and runs barely shake the grasses.
Suddenly he stops, half startled,
Alert, but not yet afraid.
He sits stock still, a grey stone;
His heart now fiercely racing,
His dark eyes fixed, intent.
The distant farmhouse seems to be asleep.
The distant lane dips empty between trees.
The distant sheep bunch silent in their field.
Poised in the mouth of the wind
On wings as still as ice
The fierce hawk hangs.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 7th. 1967. - January 13th. 1972. - July 8th. 2013.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
2.
The Kill.
Deep in the moonlit valley
All life is hushed;
Nothing stirs, nothing wakens,
Only the quiet breathing
Of the wind.
Like a scalpel a rodent`s cry
Rips open the womb of night.-
Wing beats thrusting upward
Crush the wild sound.
Scratched on air a living shadow
The young hawk soars
Riding the breath of the wind:-
For a moment the wood is alive
With a hundred thousand voices
Shrieking alarm.
A dark shape cuts the pocked face
Of the dumb cold moon
Then drops out of sight........
For a time the danger has passed.
The panic subsides.
Slowly the raw wound closes.
Trevor John karsavin Potter.
June 4th. 1974. - June 27th. - July 8th. 2013.
Monday, 8 July 2013
Thursday, 27 June 2013
(1) Girls at a Salford bus Stop.revised version (2) The Eternal Round-a-bout. (3) Love Is Not What We Do.
1.
Girls at a Salford Bus Stop.(Revised Version).
Where on Earth have they gone to
Those teenagers waiting in line
for the Saturday morning trolley?
Waiting dumb struck, quiet as dead
mice. There they were, close by the
factory gate, Sitting in line high up on
the red brick wall Like a row of broken
bottles, Waiting for the Artist to sketch
them, Or a schoolboy to throw a stone.
Where on Earth have they gone to
Now that the painting is done, Framed
and on public display, as their white knees
were That long ago Saturday morning
Before the boyfriends came to call
And the infants kicked up a fuss? Perhaps
they have been put out to grass, Like so
many of their generation, Now that their
era has passed. Or perhaps they have simply de-
camped To the elegant charms of Southport,
Where they now wait in line for tea. Or maybe
like the cat eyed Artist, Who stood with his note -
book and pen, Observing their every movement,
Have long since chucked out their glad rags
And dropped off their clogs in the dust.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 30th. - July 1st. - 7th. 2013.
Recalling some quirky paintings by Lowry.
----------------------------------------
2
The Eternal Round-a-bout.
Love drops in like a Sky Diver
First there were no roses
Now there are a million
All things changed in an instant
Just like you and me Babe
First we were
Then we were not
And now here we go again
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
26th. June 2013.
--------------------------------
3.
Love Is Not What We Do.
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
to become what we were
Before what we are
And so go round again,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are.
I should`nt repeat myself
Or I might be packed up on the
shelf but
To remind you while I remain,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Now let me explain
Before we melt away
And vanish down the drain,
Love is everything
That we live and do
and is good and true
About me and you,
And so, to go round again,
It is all that we are and do,
Not what we were.
So far So good,
All this seems true,
but when there is no more love
What can we do?
It will mean goodbye to me
And also goodbye to you;
So let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
And do not come back again
As me and you,
Or indeed as what we were,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are,
So good So far
tra la.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
3rd. - 7th. March 2013.
Girls at a Salford Bus Stop.(Revised Version).
Where on Earth have they gone to
Those teenagers waiting in line
for the Saturday morning trolley?
Waiting dumb struck, quiet as dead
mice. There they were, close by the
factory gate, Sitting in line high up on
the red brick wall Like a row of broken
bottles, Waiting for the Artist to sketch
them, Or a schoolboy to throw a stone.
Where on Earth have they gone to
Now that the painting is done, Framed
and on public display, as their white knees
were That long ago Saturday morning
Before the boyfriends came to call
And the infants kicked up a fuss? Perhaps
they have been put out to grass, Like so
many of their generation, Now that their
era has passed. Or perhaps they have simply de-
camped To the elegant charms of Southport,
Where they now wait in line for tea. Or maybe
like the cat eyed Artist, Who stood with his note -
book and pen, Observing their every movement,
Have long since chucked out their glad rags
And dropped off their clogs in the dust.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 30th. - July 1st. - 7th. 2013.
Recalling some quirky paintings by Lowry.
----------------------------------------
2
The Eternal Round-a-bout.
Love drops in like a Sky Diver
First there were no roses
Now there are a million
All things changed in an instant
Just like you and me Babe
First we were
Then we were not
And now here we go again
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
26th. June 2013.
--------------------------------
3.
Love Is Not What We Do.
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
to become what we were
Before what we are
And so go round again,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are.
I should`nt repeat myself
Or I might be packed up on the
shelf but
To remind you while I remain,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are;
Now let me explain
Before we melt away
And vanish down the drain,
Love is everything
That we live and do
and is good and true
About me and you,
And so, to go round again,
It is all that we are and do,
Not what we were.
So far So good,
All this seems true,
but when there is no more love
What can we do?
It will mean goodbye to me
And also goodbye to you;
So let me explain
Before we melt away
Into wind and rain
And do not come back again
As me and you,
Or indeed as what we were,
Love is not what we do
It is what we are,
So good So far
tra la.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
3rd. - 7th. March 2013.
Thursday, 20 June 2013
(A) Greek Midsummer Solstice.Revised Version. (B) The Rite of Spring.
(A).
Greek Midsummer Solstice. (Revised Version).
1
After the rain
The earth is black as blood
Drawn from a dead Calf.
The Goddess Aphrodite,
Born of the dank earth
And not from the sea
As the Ancient Greeks
Would have us believe,
Is herself dark as
The Calf`s blood.
We sacrifice our selves
Totally
To her fierce deity
Without a thought,
Without a care.
Our bodies intertwined
Tightly together
In the still house
Like children stung by dreams.
We sleep fitfully
Afeared of the crescent moon
That hangs in the June sky
Like a sickle;
Or a flint knife lifted high
over a sacred altar.
2.
The Roman Gods are routed;
Diana turns aside,
Emphatically defeated;
Mars discards his armour,
His sword is pitted with rust.
Aphrodite now assumes
All their ancient powers,
Their sacred arts and symbols.
She sorts them with due ceremony
To neatly pack away
In her Shoulder Bag of tricks.
3.
The cool rain has returned,
Hiding the sharp faced moon
Behind a curtain of torn silk.
In the dark we become aware
Of the cruel smile of the Goddess,
A smile that she rarely shows
Except when the moon is black.-
We snuggle up tightly together,
Caught in our mutual dependence,
The dark gift of the Goddess.
We snuggle up tightly together
To welcome sleep.
A sleep bereft of dreams.
The quiet sleep of the just.
Outside the tethered calves
Low softly in their pens.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 15th.-19th.-20th.- 21st. 2013.
February 23rd. 2014.
--------------------------------------
(B)
The Rite of Spring.
Dance ugly
Give your education the boot
Be yourselves
Spit in the eye of the critics
Don`t give a damn
Dance ugly
And love it
Love it all the way to the archives
People don`t believe you
When you dance ugly
They think you are lying
Making them look like fools
Gargoyles
They think you cannot dance at all
They think you are just thrashing in air
Meaninglessly
Trashing the heirlooms of reason
Idiotically
Like mythologised Vandals
Goths
When really you are forcing
Deep Deep Deep
Right into the heart of all things
The rock drill of intelligence
The diamond edge of truth
What is truth?
Pilate asked that question
But never got the answer,
It was just too easy for him,
Sacrifice was a masculine issue,
Nothing to do with the feminine,
Resurrection was not in his remit.
Dance ugly
Be true to yourselves
Thrust your fierceness into my face
Open up the jungle
The battles of life and death
Reality
Show us what we are
Trevor john Karsavin Potter
May 26th. 2013.
Greek Midsummer Solstice. (Revised Version).
1
After the rain
The earth is black as blood
Drawn from a dead Calf.
The Goddess Aphrodite,
Born of the dank earth
And not from the sea
As the Ancient Greeks
Would have us believe,
Is herself dark as
The Calf`s blood.
We sacrifice our selves
Totally
To her fierce deity
Without a thought,
Without a care.
Our bodies intertwined
Tightly together
In the still house
Like children stung by dreams.
We sleep fitfully
Afeared of the crescent moon
That hangs in the June sky
Like a sickle;
Or a flint knife lifted high
over a sacred altar.
2.
The Roman Gods are routed;
Diana turns aside,
Emphatically defeated;
Mars discards his armour,
His sword is pitted with rust.
Aphrodite now assumes
All their ancient powers,
Their sacred arts and symbols.
She sorts them with due ceremony
To neatly pack away
In her Shoulder Bag of tricks.
3.
The cool rain has returned,
Hiding the sharp faced moon
Behind a curtain of torn silk.
In the dark we become aware
Of the cruel smile of the Goddess,
A smile that she rarely shows
Except when the moon is black.-
We snuggle up tightly together,
Caught in our mutual dependence,
The dark gift of the Goddess.
We snuggle up tightly together
To welcome sleep.
A sleep bereft of dreams.
The quiet sleep of the just.
Outside the tethered calves
Low softly in their pens.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 15th.-19th.-20th.- 21st. 2013.
February 23rd. 2014.
--------------------------------------
(B)
The Rite of Spring.
Dance ugly
Give your education the boot
Be yourselves
Spit in the eye of the critics
Don`t give a damn
Dance ugly
And love it
Love it all the way to the archives
People don`t believe you
When you dance ugly
They think you are lying
Making them look like fools
Gargoyles
They think you cannot dance at all
They think you are just thrashing in air
Meaninglessly
Trashing the heirlooms of reason
Idiotically
Like mythologised Vandals
Goths
When really you are forcing
Deep Deep Deep
Right into the heart of all things
The rock drill of intelligence
The diamond edge of truth
What is truth?
Pilate asked that question
But never got the answer,
It was just too easy for him,
Sacrifice was a masculine issue,
Nothing to do with the feminine,
Resurrection was not in his remit.
Dance ugly
Be true to yourselves
Thrust your fierceness into my face
Open up the jungle
The battles of life and death
Reality
Show us what we are
Trevor john Karsavin Potter
May 26th. 2013.
Thursday, 13 June 2013
(1) Recollections of an Old Dancer (Revised).(2).Shadow Play: The Ballerena Replies.
(For Zoe Smith, 1950 - 2011, who never was a dancer,
but, perhaps, should have been).
1.
Recollections of an Old Dancer.(Revised Version).
The doctors were wrong.
That old problem has not crippled me.
I could have continued dancing.
But now I can barely think about those times,
The hours in Class;
Those hard won Terpsichorean movements
When we were partners, collaborators,
Before that faulty diagnoses
Fractured our relationship, (forever)?
You were my White Swan,
My Cinderella, my Snow Maiden,
The girl who melted away at the start of summer,
Only to return to haunt me
When those sudden winds, announcing the onset
of autumn, Rattled the window panes
And scurried fallen leaves along the pavements.
You remained with me for most of that winter,
A white kitten lodged in our tenement apartment;
The coal fire, that seldom warmed the grate,
Flickering red lights deep down in your eyes;
My enigmatic friend, my Snegurochka,
Pale Cinders with her besom and ancient scuttle;
Fraught scion of Les Saisons Russe,
Pale as ivory, fresh ice on the Neva.
And then you were gone.
The moment that I ceased to dance
You deserted me; waltzing out of the apartment
Into the frosty night, the enveloping shadows;
A filigree figure dissolving, like the sleet,
That shifted the bolted shutters.
I was devastated, a Pierrot dashed into several
tiny pieces, My dreams cut dead by reality.
So please now tell me, where did you flounce off to?
How did you escape the vigilant paparazzi,
The boys on the five star bikes?
Did you Troika deep into Siberian forests;
Or sail to the edge of Antarctica,
The albatross haunted seas?
Did you circle the face of the moon?
Tip toe on the North Pole of Mars?
You had often promised yourself such trips
In our volatile moments together.
You always hated hotels.
Declined to visit your friends.
You left no letter, no clue to your intentions,
Not even an old publicity shot
Designed to enchant your fans.
No remnant that I could decipher.
But now, in this bleak December,
A decade, or more, after your disaffection,
I am daily pestered by rumours of your returning,
A face, like yours, ghosting the edge of a mirror,
A guarded whisper discerned in a darkened theatre,
A shadow darting silently out of a crowd;
A discarded glove:
A newspaper cutting drifting upon the wind;
Dogs barking in the back yards;
A crystal shoe dropped down an empty stairwell;
Strange noises late at night; a shimmer of ice.
So now I sit and wait, diligent with expectation,
For the tap of your footsteps crossing the patio,
Your willowy figure, at ease in the unlit hallway
Poised to confront me en pointe.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 30th. 2010. - June 14th. 2013.
Revised July 31st. 2013.
-------------------------------------------
3
Shadow Play: The Ballerena Replies.
Hooked to no fixed strata
No ticking time
Unchecked I visit various orbits
In one quick conscious day,
Not marching, as you, clockwork towards your moon
But in free space suspended, juggling fates,
Times, perspectives
Until clear patterns shape.
As to you, your blindness appals me,
Commuting through flecks of experience
One point in mind,
Scared to unmask and review
The intricate complex of suns.
Yet, though separated by distances, by depths
and shadings immeasurable
Our challenging voices scan
To receive appropriate token;
By this we are defined?
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 1965.
Written in The One Tun Goodge Street, when it was at the heart of the London Scene.
Thursday, 6 June 2013
(1) Poet in Suburban Extremis. (2) Early Morning Walk.
1.
Poet in Suburban Extremis.
The jagged wound is healed,
The raw skin sealed,
And in a poem
I myself revealed.
There was no poetry in our so called love.
You wanted a house, a car, a radio, a fridge;
Someone to dig the garden, pay the mortgage,
Keep your body clear of that irksome itch
As you lay supine in the bath, pretending to be rich.
But life just aint like that my lie low babe,
When it cometh to terse reality, you never made the grade;
You brandished self respect like a junkie`s razor blade.
love hurts,
We all know this must be true,
But the stark intensity of love
Never cut through to you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 15th. 2012. - April 3rd. 2013.
-----------------------------------
2.
Early Morning Walk.
This morning I watched the sunrise
A pearl in an indigo sky
A blank of silent water
Denuded of ships
A solitary bird sang in the hedgerow
Pining for a long lost mate
Another lonely traveller
Hands stuffed in woollen gloves
I walked towards the cash point
That emblem of insecurities
More feared than a broken phone
I looked up at the new found pearl
And wondered how soon it would burn
A large hole in my pocket
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 4th. 2013.
The pearl often represents purity in medieval poetry.
See Blog Page for July 3rd. 2015 for rewrite of this poem.
Poet in Suburban Extremis.
The jagged wound is healed,
The raw skin sealed,
And in a poem
I myself revealed.
There was no poetry in our so called love.
You wanted a house, a car, a radio, a fridge;
Someone to dig the garden, pay the mortgage,
Keep your body clear of that irksome itch
As you lay supine in the bath, pretending to be rich.
But life just aint like that my lie low babe,
When it cometh to terse reality, you never made the grade;
You brandished self respect like a junkie`s razor blade.
love hurts,
We all know this must be true,
But the stark intensity of love
Never cut through to you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 15th. 2012. - April 3rd. 2013.
-----------------------------------
2.
Early Morning Walk.
This morning I watched the sunrise
A pearl in an indigo sky
A blank of silent water
Denuded of ships
A solitary bird sang in the hedgerow
Pining for a long lost mate
Another lonely traveller
Hands stuffed in woollen gloves
I walked towards the cash point
That emblem of insecurities
More feared than a broken phone
I looked up at the new found pearl
And wondered how soon it would burn
A large hole in my pocket
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 4th. 2013.
The pearl often represents purity in medieval poetry.
See Blog Page for July 3rd. 2015 for rewrite of this poem.
Friday, 31 May 2013
London - June 1966.(Revised).
1
London - June 1966.
I broke my promise,
I did not visit you,
I sat all alone in the pub
Nursing my self regard
Like a pampered pop star.
Disturbed by your candid awkwardness
I had become afraid of intimacy.
You waited all day in your room,
Staring out of the window at the passing crowd,
Hoping to spy the visitor who never came.
The day cooled and darkened.
A shower sluiced the road with rivulets of mud.
The weather mirrored your mood.
You closed the window against the driving rain.
Your friends told me that you cried then;
Turned your face to the wall, tore at the curtain.
You had never shown me your tears,
Nor your anger, nor your love,
But your silence was familiar to me.
The next day I arrived on the doorstep,
Dishevelled, unkempt, just like the weather.
You said nothing, your face was a stern mask,
You turned away from my greeting. Frozen out
I snatched some chit-chat with your neighbour,
Snippets of news and some general tittle-tattle.
You were watchful, aloof; but hunched by the fire
Took note of my every word, thinking.
Bare footed , head lowered, eyes half closed,
A scorned Pre-Raphaelite Icon nursing grief;
Gently you brushed my face with your index finger
As you walked slowly, not speaking, to your room.
I stared at the lino, now noting how worn it was,
Spotted by cigarette burns, heel dents, grease stains;
The corners scuffed up and broken.
Your father put down his newspaper and sighed.
The door closed quietly behind you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 2008 - Revised June 2nd, - 10th. 2013. - May 16th. 2017.
first Version blogged 2nd. August 2012.
London - June 1966.
I broke my promise,
I did not visit you,
I sat all alone in the pub
Nursing my self regard
Like a pampered pop star.
Disturbed by your candid awkwardness
I had become afraid of intimacy.
You waited all day in your room,
Staring out of the window at the passing crowd,
Hoping to spy the visitor who never came.
The day cooled and darkened.
A shower sluiced the road with rivulets of mud.
The weather mirrored your mood.
You closed the window against the driving rain.
Your friends told me that you cried then;
Turned your face to the wall, tore at the curtain.
You had never shown me your tears,
Nor your anger, nor your love,
But your silence was familiar to me.
The next day I arrived on the doorstep,
Dishevelled, unkempt, just like the weather.
You said nothing, your face was a stern mask,
You turned away from my greeting. Frozen out
I snatched some chit-chat with your neighbour,
Snippets of news and some general tittle-tattle.
You were watchful, aloof; but hunched by the fire
Took note of my every word, thinking.
Bare footed , head lowered, eyes half closed,
A scorned Pre-Raphaelite Icon nursing grief;
Gently you brushed my face with your index finger
As you walked slowly, not speaking, to your room.
I stared at the lino, now noting how worn it was,
Spotted by cigarette burns, heel dents, grease stains;
The corners scuffed up and broken.
Your father put down his newspaper and sighed.
The door closed quietly behind you.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 2008 - Revised June 2nd, - 10th. 2013. - May 16th. 2017.
first Version blogged 2nd. August 2012.
Thursday, 23 May 2013
Three Poems (1) Bonjour Sunshine, How Soon the Dog Days?.(2) The Lost Doll (Revised Version). .(3) Julia Agrippina.
1.
Bonjour Sunshine, How Soon the Dog Days?
Something the Press named Summer surprised me
Leaping into my face like a bitch on heat
Licking me all over with a pumice tongue
Making my day
And then
At the very first hint of a Nordic wind
Skedaddled to hide in a distant corner
Yelping
No "on your marks" thoroughbred this
Nor even a jumped up loser
Just an eye on the main chance Mongrel
Or so it seems
This is the English Summer that we busted the Bank for
Teetering on debt fuelled tenterhooks
day after raw skinned day
Waiting for the trap to spring
Open
Stubs in our hands
Watching the young Hares gambol
But because we are feckless
Snobs to the raw
We have often seemed coldly abashed when she comes
Prancing on hind legs
Prattling out of the blue
Larking
Tongue down our throats like a fair weather friend
Stinking of sodden blankets
Not even the on hand Vet can master this miscreant canine -
His Strong Man grip proves useless
Likewise his throw away needles
All day to day methods fall flat -
This megawatt scallywag is much too much her own mistress
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 27th. - 28th. - 29th.2013.
___________________________________
2.
The Lost Doll (Revised Version).
Just tossed into a ditch
A Spanish doll
Staring sadly out at an upturned world
Through cracked green eyes.
Matted eyelashes;
Her nose broken;
Hands drooping helplessly
Over her torn dress;
Porcelain face blackened.
The wooden body swollen;
Dead straight stockined pegs
Disguised as nimble legs
Fit for a Gypsy dancer
Trapped under slabs of pine,
The trashed and scattered remnants
Of a chucked out chest of drawers
Drenched in black water.
I wanted to rescue that doll,
Steal her from the grip of the water
That would rapidly break her down
Into sodden bits and pieces,
The usual unloved garbage;
But her crude cut beauty repulsed me,
Her feline cracked green eyes
Staring blankly into my face
Forced me to keep my distance,
Leave her to her fate.
I continued my trek down the rutted lane
Just once I looked back
Before I reached the corner
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
20th. April - 21st. - 24th. May 25th.- 26th.- June 2013.
---------------------------------
3.
Julia Agrippina.
After murdering her husband
She slipped the leash
And went out to tend the roses
The Guard Dog on the patio
Scratched himself lazily
When she passed
She opened the gate quietly
Side stepping a pool of shadow
Beneath the Emperor`s window
She stretched her hands up
into the roof of the trellis
To reach the tardy blooms
The rare buds of October
The flowers in the garden
Reeked beauty from her touch
Her fingernails were golden
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 21st. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2013.
From an idea first dreamt up in May 1964.
Bonjour Sunshine, How Soon the Dog Days?
Something the Press named Summer surprised me
Leaping into my face like a bitch on heat
Licking me all over with a pumice tongue
Making my day
And then
At the very first hint of a Nordic wind
Skedaddled to hide in a distant corner
Yelping
No "on your marks" thoroughbred this
Nor even a jumped up loser
Just an eye on the main chance Mongrel
Or so it seems
This is the English Summer that we busted the Bank for
Teetering on debt fuelled tenterhooks
day after raw skinned day
Waiting for the trap to spring
Open
Stubs in our hands
Watching the young Hares gambol
But because we are feckless
Snobs to the raw
We have often seemed coldly abashed when she comes
Prancing on hind legs
Prattling out of the blue
Larking
Tongue down our throats like a fair weather friend
Stinking of sodden blankets
Not even the on hand Vet can master this miscreant canine -
His Strong Man grip proves useless
Likewise his throw away needles
All day to day methods fall flat -
This megawatt scallywag is much too much her own mistress
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 27th. - 28th. - 29th.2013.
___________________________________
2.
The Lost Doll (Revised Version).
Just tossed into a ditch
A Spanish doll
Staring sadly out at an upturned world
Through cracked green eyes.
Matted eyelashes;
Her nose broken;
Hands drooping helplessly
Over her torn dress;
Porcelain face blackened.
The wooden body swollen;
Dead straight stockined pegs
Disguised as nimble legs
Fit for a Gypsy dancer
Trapped under slabs of pine,
The trashed and scattered remnants
Of a chucked out chest of drawers
Drenched in black water.
I wanted to rescue that doll,
Steal her from the grip of the water
That would rapidly break her down
Into sodden bits and pieces,
The usual unloved garbage;
But her crude cut beauty repulsed me,
Her feline cracked green eyes
Staring blankly into my face
Forced me to keep my distance,
Leave her to her fate.
I continued my trek down the rutted lane
Just once I looked back
Before I reached the corner
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
20th. April - 21st. - 24th. May 25th.- 26th.- June 2013.
---------------------------------
3.
Julia Agrippina.
After murdering her husband
She slipped the leash
And went out to tend the roses
The Guard Dog on the patio
Scratched himself lazily
When she passed
She opened the gate quietly
Side stepping a pool of shadow
Beneath the Emperor`s window
She stretched her hands up
into the roof of the trellis
To reach the tardy blooms
The rare buds of October
The flowers in the garden
Reeked beauty from her touch
Her fingernails were golden
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 21st. - 22nd. - 23rd. 2013.
From an idea first dreamt up in May 1964.
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