The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Tuesday, July 7, 2020

Red Carnations

If only I could say let's meet at St. Pancras,
not below the android looking couple, clinching
under the clock, but next to Betjeman's statue,
crumpled, loveable, human.

You haven't seen the station, done up
in all its magnificence, the long glitzy
champagne and oyster bar at the track's edge.
I still don't like oysters and you never tried them.

The first thing I'd do is tell about the children:
daughter as good as her word
never working for the big business, our son
becoming an arts writer. I know it will never

happen, but if it did, I'd carry a whole bunch
of red carnations, so you couldn't miss me.


--Peter Phillips

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