We came down to a pond-
the stem of the **** was bleached
but brazen and bold.
                                   Chidden about the air
was a peppering fury of care,
and a wavering strand of gold, but darker and darker
(what tantrums the landscape threw!)
by the dangerous edge of things, we shouted it out. We’re through!
Tears grew.
                  We spoke
in that murderous murmur that even the sedge
refuses to voice when choked and hassled
by hustling wind blown over, its edge,
we spoke –
                    but only wild birds awoke to our “haven”
of heaven-hell-roped.