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The Greenhouse

Seeing December’s filicale,

Her nervous woods,

In the red sound of the soil

I plot my trowel,

Looking for round green words.

Plants creep and spire,

Leaves coil and trace

Their potted artifice.

In the red sound of the air

The heart’s forced temperature

Heats the induced flower.

Far from the glass house

Constrained and aphyllous

The leaves have shot their songs

With brown and withered tongues.

And here I plot my trowel

Fearing no less

Such orchid skill,

Such anode emptiness.

from So I Looked Down to CamelotFind more by Rosamund Stanhope at the library

Copyright © 1962 Rosamund Stanhope
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Poems Rosamund Stanhope

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