Sylvia Plath

Dark Wood, Dark Water

This wood burns a dark Incense. Pale moss drips In elbow-scarves, beards From the archaic Bones of the great trees. Blue mists move over A lake thick with fish. Snails scroll the border Of the glazed water With coils of ram's-horn. Out in the open Down there the late year Hammers her rare and Various metals. Old pewter roots twist Up from the jet-backed Mirror of water And while the air's clear Hourglass sifts a Drift of goldpieces Bright waterlights are Sliding their quoits one After the other Down boles of the fir.

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0