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Enter a Cloud
Gently disintegrate me Said nothing at all. Is there still time to say Said I myself lying In a bower of bramble Into which I have fallen. Look through my eyes up At blue with not anything We could have ever arranged Slowly taking place. Above the spires of the fox Gloves and above the bracken Tops with their young heads Recognising the wind, The armies of the empty Blue press me further Into Zennor Hill. If I half-close my eyes The spiked light leaps in And I am here as near Happy as I will get In the sailing afternoon. Enter a cloud. Between The head of Zennor and Gurnard’s Head the long Marine horizon makes A blue wall or is it A distant table-top Of the far-off simple sea. Enter a cloud. O cloud, I see you entering from Your west gathering yourself Together into a white Headlong. And now you move And stream out of the Gurnard, The west corner of my eye. Enter a cloud. The cloud’s Changing shape is crossing Slowly only an inch Above the line of the sea. Now nearly equidistant Between Zennor and Gurnard’s Head, an elongated White anvil is sailing Not wanting to be a symbol. Said nothing at all. And proceeds with no idea Of destination along The sea bearing changing Messages. Jean in London, Lifting a cup, looking Abstractedly out through Her Hampstead glass will never Be caught by your new shape Above the chimneys. Jean, Jean, do you not see This cloud has been thought of And written on Zennor Hill. The cloud is going beyond What I can see or make. Over up-country maybe Albert Strick stops and waves Caught in the middle of teeling Broccoli for the winter. The cloud is not there yet. From Gurnard's Head to Zennor Head the level line Crosses my eyes lying On buzzing Zennor Hill. The cloud is only a wisp And gone behind the Head. It is funny I got the sea's Horizontal slightly surrealist. Now when I raise myself Out of the bracken I see The long empty blue Between the fishing Gurnard And Zennor. It was a cloud The language at my time's Disposal made use of. Thank you. And for your applause. It has been a pleasure. I Have never enjoyed speaking more. May I also thank the real ones Who have made this possible. First, the cloud itself. And now Gurnard's Head and Zennor Head. Also recognise How I have been helped By Jean and Madron's Albert Strick (He is a real man.) And good words like brambles, Bower, spiked, fox, anvil, teeling. The bees you heard are from A hive owned by my friend Garfield down there below In the house by Zennor Church. The good blue sun is pressing Me into Zennor Hill. Gently disintegrate me Said nothing at all.