MALEDICTION FOR W B YEATS

Your words, Sir, enchant me;
now lullaby, a soft caress in sweet slumber
now reveille, to wake and wing away

Your thoughts, Sir, appal me;
those cunningly crafted curlicues
penned by monkish hands
will never surpass the daily dance
of meadow grass in rippling winds

I beseech you, Sir 
to break this gilded Buddha,
tear down these tedious idols
of the man-made mind!

Let, rather, your fingertips
flitter like butterflies
soft and silent as a sigh
on bright skin

Or let, rather, a world of colours
settle on your eyes like spectral dew
swinging loose and limpid
on early morning grass

And where, Sir, just where
would you seek to plant
your brain's big and clumsy feet
when sleeping snowdrops grow
in Winter’s melting snow?

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