by James McAuley

James McAuley

A blowfly hovers in the silence.
Under the blind the sun lays down
A bar of hot gold on the floor.
A rigid Christ stares from the wall.
The fevered sleeper, dreaming a call
From somewhere outside, stirs in answer.
Cut flowers wilt. The tired watcher
Leans forward and touches the wet brow.

Collected Poems 1936-1970

Last updated January 14, 2019