[from a motif by Jean Dunand (1877-1942)]
seven lacqueur ducks on a silver pond
their rippling held in a moveless frieze
nothing now can help them swim beyond
the stoned edges (invent a new-age breeze)
eternity is water starved of trees
their fixture is our own - for all we fidget
history puts us down as one dead digit
silver-ponded we can't stop being stirred
to leap behind and forward in our schemes
tasting the larger landscapes of each word
wishing the stillborn pond break into streams
to sweep us to the oceans of our dreams
in our small minds the universe is waltzing.....
takes pain to sauerkraut such schmaltzing
the patch we're stuck in's our best endeavour
(lacquered in the way our talents choose)
in a phoney war we're gunned to being clever
its medals leave an unrelenting bruise
every win predicts elsewhere we'll lose
wisdom roots deep - needs not to see beyond
seven lacqueur ducks on a silver pond
