Friday, September 25, 2015


Y E T   A N O T H E R   F A N

It's a great shame

Madame Mallarme

that to sad us your

hands seem swans

on tortoises drifting

elegant in the sea

While birds whine

at the sun we lay

our aching eyes in

your lap and an iron

balustrade holds

firm round our heart

Gently white planes

rove the horizon

as your wings beat

to earth and trample

our freckles into

coral and grass


F R A N K   O' H A R A