Time has me quartered in its heraldry;
my outlook latticed in by years and days,
and barred into four seasons. How do I
seek out my summer self in winter ways?
Under this hurt1 of heaven, built for praise,
how keep the hidden lark’s eternal song;
or find creative order in among
this world’s sinister and dextrous maze?
The sanguine poppy’s rampant in the field
and winter’s sable sticks against the white.
And each emblazoned day I know must yield
an equal, and perhaps a starless night
when time, dictator to all mortal men
cries “now I tie the wake knot”. Wake not then.
© Adrian Campbell 1982
1hurt: a blue roundel