Oh fie, ‘tis a headless ask gone wanting,
making rhyme of an answering –
hunting signs in an eyeless dream.
Why put this curse on me?
Why is it I who seeks?
Wherefore you who are silenced in words;
in double sens one must agonise
and still yet choose the right meaning.
While your silence is complete
making sense is a soundless dying.
I am old;
I am not trying to reach.
My comfort is teaching lies the truth,
taking the quick edge in my hands,
turning the blade inwards.
Yes, there is room in verse for untruths,
tho’ tell these at your peril
– it will undo of who you are;
it is seductive evil – beguiling.
And, yes, it may still rhyme.
© 7 January 2007, I.D. Carswell 2007