Pressure-born fireclouds of sight.
A dark fading blaze of color
As the retina recharges.
A tiny ringing of hair strands near the ear.
The kite, with the flag of St George for a tail,
Floats a mile above the Appalachian Piedmont.
There is laughter from the porch in the gathering dusk,
They are speaking of Duchamp's love gasoline.
The past is placid, a preparation complete,
The future delightfully indistinct.
Fireflies dance in the valley,
Over the rushes by the stream.
A Mockingbird echoes a Nightingale's song,
In ever more distant variations.
Stewart McKenzie
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/landscape-01-new-world/
