Panoply

This silence which is not the lapping air / coming to tides upon its homeland
And back into the sutures of an afternoon / setting by a glum sky, incandescent
But honest – a rest not dissimilar to / the droughts that poppies weave
By a flourishing grave, still and serene – / steals into the holes of the vortex,
First paradigm of present song, leading the ministrels / and the brides of night,
Bedecked of somnolent garm, through jewels / for their mistresses lost
In the staggering blaze of a leaf.