F. S. Flint

Poems

from Otherworlds - Cadences by F. S. Flint</em> (London: The Poetry Bookshop, 1920)

Trees

Elm trees and the leaf the boy in me hated long ago -- rough and sandy. Poplars and their leaves, tender, smooth to the fingers, and a secret in their smell I have forgotten. Oaks and forest glades, heart aching with wonder, fear: their bitter mast. Willows and the scented beetle we put in our handkerchiefs; and the roots of one that spread into a river: nakedness, water and joy. Hawthorn, white and odorous with blossom, framing the quiet fields, and swaying flowers and grasses, and the hum of bees. Oh, these are the things that are with me now, in the town; and I am grateful for this minute of my manhood. Lunch Frail beauty, green, gold and incandescent whiteness, narcissi, daffodils, you have brought me Spring and longing, wistfulness, in your irradiance. Therefore, I sit here among the people, dreaming, and my heart arches with all the hawthorn blossom, the bees humming, the light wind upon the poplars, and your warmth and your love and your eyes . . . they smile and know me. Houses Evening and quiet: a bird trills in the poplar trees behind the house with the dark green door across the road. Into the sky, the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys thrust their cowls. The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain. No wind; the trees merge, green with green; a car whirs by; footsteps and voices take their pitch in the key of dusk, far-off and near, subdued. Solid and square to the world the houses stand, their windows blocked with venetian blinds. Nothing will move them. Eau-Forte On black bare trees a stale cream moon hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds. Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low, tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram. Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square; and round the bend six bullocks come. A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides their clattering feet to death and shame.

First published 1920

Robert Clark