I’m reading Ted Hughes, his verse
Outfaced by an insane death. Everywhere
The shroud casts its shadow over
Rich pickings of life, savage in their colours,
Greys vibrating, browns and beige shouting
Defiance. Memories have an intensity
That feeds on the corpse we never see.
This is the grim unfeeling truth
Of nature. All the Spring colour
Is feeding on decay, on lost loves,
On lonely deaths and viciousness.
Yet we grow in the same soil and cannot
Refrain from singing our own song,
Loving our loves, hating our hates.
We have to bear this to look
At the daily accounts of savagery
And destruction and not give way
To pointlessness. We must go on
With our awkward loving and kindness,
Our soft melodies of uncertain key,
Our attempts at decoration.


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