An old woman perches on a well

plaiting her memories into a triangular frame:

one for each god! she says.

 

and she counts them off on her seven fingers.

 

The Reflection in the well

laughs from it’s pivot:

it says.

 

it adds.

 

The sky, condensing its gravity into the grassroots

gathered it’s rimless consciousness:

as it perceives a vortex of contra-whirling colours

 on the blue eddy of harmony.

 

But the sky, from it’s multi-spread eye of vision

saw that it was only a species of experience.

the old sinner cries.

 

But the sky reduces Reflection’s godhead

to mere angles - varieties.

 

1974