THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2003

 
David Angel
FOR FRANCOIS COUPERIN
  There is a pulse, almost hidden in the leaves
And a series of steps, mossy and uneven.

Darkness plods about in sensible shoes
Missing the obviousness of a spent arrow

Ignoring the moon behind a cloud,
The dance, the mist about the ankles.

A posteriori, of course, everything
Really does make sense

And the identity of the murderer
Was easy to know from the start.

Nonetheless, ferns as curled as capitals
Illuminated in the Book of Kells

Are unfolding like unborn fingers.
The night is scented with mushrooms

Eased out of loam by their creamy roots
And the sharp animal smells of the hunted.

Suddenly the whole wood is filled
With the electric glow of a nocturnal swimming pool.

What was so simple has become full of branches.
Antlers click amongst the sighing trees.

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