Michael Newman — two poems

Winter Colour

The flower rises
From the soil,
Then opens into white apparition,
Helleborous niger,
The Christmas Rose.

On such a grey and rain-rotten day,
I welcome this affirmation

Of unbridled joy:


Paradise where least expected

A Measure of Dusk
A delinquent moon slinks past Shetcombe Hill.
The dead-branch antlers of an oak
Defy the onset of dusk.
Clouds misappropriate the treasures of sunset.

I have seen daylight fade
A dozen dozen times
(This year alone)
And yet only now

See it in its mystery.
I taste the colours,
Breathe-in the perfumed voices
Of women.
A sprinkle of stars

Senses the senses.
No truth but in the senses.