Bleak – After Rimbaud

Far from the blare and hubbub
From the cheers and clinking glasses
I sat down on the grassless slope
Under sycamore and ash
And watched the silent stream

May’s warming sun
Darted between the leaves
And kissed its rippled peaks
What solace, joy or comfort
Could I draw from its green-dark waters
What cure from nature’s dazzling palette

I am finished
A voice spoke clear in my head
I am already dead
Another delivered its judgement
As blackbird and thrush
Continued their joyful campaign against me