Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock, Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core; Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf; Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly. They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square. Submitted by Stephen Fryer
Added: 2 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 4 Sep 2026 4:27 PM | Viewed: 5256 times
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