Saturday commute lxxiii: dissolve, dull stain

Perhaps a single pining mandolin

Throbs where cicadas have quarried

To the heart of all misgiving and there

Scratches on silence like a pet locked in ..

I shall recall nights of squinting rain,

Like pig-iron on the hills: bruised

Landscapes of drumming cloud and everywhere

The lack of someone spreading like a stain.

Lawrence Durrell

The Tree of Idleness

1955

Selected Poems

op. cit.