Emma Swan
THE WONDER CITY
In this living city we lie
like leaves wind-heaved
from boughs, branches slackly
loosing them, too poor to keep.
Gritty in buildings we abide
with stalks that seek soil,
the ground unpaved, the heart made
whole and healed in its role.
Not for long our hopes stir
beyond the shining peaks
that cast a stone shadow. Bird
and flowering are lost in leaks
of dark that sap our strength,
seeping through day-wake, sleep
until the haven of our hope at length
becomes the moulding heap
in which we fall:
a fancied paradise and hell.
Gordon Sylander
MARINE
The children of the laundryman
Mock the wood-voiced sand bird.
The children of the laundryman
March upon the turtle.
The children of the laundryman
Disarm the willow.
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