THE POOL

THERE is a pool Silent, dark and still, It holds the patterns of the trees The polished lacquered traceries Until a whimpering breeze Breaks the design at will. And through those waters dart Eyeless fish and blind, Some silver coloured as a star Or crimson as a bloody scar, Sinister their beauties are Like mad thoughts in the mind. Stranger than scaly thing Or imaged leaf, I see myself a shadow there, The fish are gliding through my hair My dull eyes have a fixed stare Drowned in the pool of grief.