F. S. Flint
Trees
Elm trees
and the leaf the boy in me hated
long ago—
rough and sandy.
Poplars
and their leaves,
tender, smooth to the fingers,
and a secret in their smell
I have forgotten.
Oaks
and forest glades,
heart aching with wonder, fear:
their bitter mast.
Willows
and the scented beetle
we put in our handkerchiefs;
and the roots of one
that spread into a river:
nakedness, water and joy.
Hawthorn,
white and odorous with blossom,
framing the quiet fields,
and swaying flowers and grasses,
and the hum of bees.
Oh, these are the things that are with me now,
in the town;
and I am grateful
for this minute of my manhood.
Lunch
Frail beauty,
green, gold and incandescent whiteness,
narcissi, daffodils,
you have brought me Spring and longing,
wistfulness,
in your irradiance.
Therefore, I sit here
among the people,
dreaming,
and my heart aches
with all the hawthorn blossom,
the bees humming,
the light wind upon the poplars,
and your warmth and your love
and your eyes...
they smile and know me.
Malady
I move;
perhaps I have wakened;
this is a bed;
this is a room;
and there is light....
Darkness!
Have I performed
the dozen acts or so
that make me the man
men see?
The door opens,
and on the landing—
quiet!
I can see nothing: the pain, the weariness!
Stairs, banisters, a handrail:
all indistinguishable.
One step farther down or up,
and why?
But up is harder. Down!
Down to this white blur;
it gives before me.
Me?
I extend all ways:
I fit into the walls and they pull me.
Light?
Light! I know it is light.
Stillness, and then,
something moves:
green, oh green, dazzling lightning!
And joy! this is my room;
there are my books, there the piano,
there the last bar I wrote,
there the last line,
and oh the sunlight!
A parrot screeches.
Accident
Dear one!
you sit there
in the corner of the carriage;
and you do not know me;
and your eyes forbid.
Is it the dirt, the squalor,
the wear of human bodies,
and the dead faces of our neighbours?
These are but symbols.
You are proud; I praise you;
your mouth is set; you see beyond us;
and you see nothing.
I have the vision of your calm, cold face,
and of the black hair that waves above it;
I watch you; I love you;
I desire you.
There is a quiet here
within the thud-thud of the wheels
upon the railway.
There is a quiet here
within my heart,
but tense and tender....
This is my station....
Fragment
... That night I loved you
in the candlelight.
Your golden hair
strewed the sweet whiteness of the pillows
and the counterpane.
O the darkness of the corners,
the warm air, and the stars
framed in the casement of the ships’ lights!
The waves lapped into the harbour;
the boats creaked;
a man’s voice sang out on the quay;
and you loved me.
In your love were the tall tree fuchsias,
the blue of the hortensias, the scarlet nasturtiums,
the trees on the hills,
the roads we had covered,
and the sea that had borne your body
before the rocks of Hartland.
You loved me with these
and with the kindness of people,
country folk, sailors and fishermen,
and the old lady who had lodged us and supped us.
You loved me with yourself
that was these and more,
changed as the earth is changed
into the bloom of flowers.
Houses
Evening and quiet:
a bird trills in the poplar trees
behind the house with the dark green door
across the road.
Into the sky,
the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys
thrust their cowls.
The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain.
No wind;
the trees merge, green with green;
a car whirs by;
footsteps and voices take their pitch
in the key of dusk,
far-off and near, subdued.
Solid and square to the world
the houses stand,
their windows blocked with venetian blinds.
Nothing will move them.
Eau-Forte
On black bare trees a stale cream moon
hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds.
Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low,
tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram.
Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square;
and round the bend six bullocks come.
A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides
their clattering feet to death and shame.