Dry Gold

Inside my threaded ear

I hear what is not here

Or there or anywhere:

A grinding as of saws

Through boards of burnished time;

A scratching as of paws

Upon a gilded stair

They never learnt to climb.

Inside my tunnelled eye

I see Greek laurel lie

Unfathomable, cold:

See, yes, and hate to see

Its execrable sheen

Shamming eternity

With gloss too densely green

And long abolished gold.

Inside my deep-drilled mouth

I dread the taste of drouth

Which summer's penury

Has processed for my need

From goldenrod, bright hay.

You cry the mind is free,

The years, the year, still young... ?

Across my palate speed

Moist scatterings of May:

They barely wet my tongue.

FRANCIS GOLFFING