Doing beauty

I'm not all gloom and bitten fingers.
I can do funny. See, clowns on rooftops,
a brass band tumbles down a flight of stairs.
Cymbals titter drunkenly, tubas flounder
off in tears. I can do beauty too. I am,
for instance, on the cusp of autumn,
when the air is a potion smelling of time.
In the park a splendid host, particles of being
in pleasant conversation. Spot-lit
and under-lighted land, a stained glass
window's perfection. Now there are domes

over a cobbled avenue, concaving the dusk,
fine-ribbed shells scooped from sea-ribbed sand,
thumb-printed blue wax. A crow passes.
He is the speck in my eye, or the world's leaden
centre. You decide.


Edwin Evans-Thirlwell