by Christos Polydorou

2017-03-24 14.16.40

The cages of mazes
raises the question
of a cold-gripped
winter gone somehow.

Gone now
too is the holly, and
the hard seedless ground
below the ice, and the shadows have become

shawl-less, and the shores of these isles
are swept with shells and bird-bones,
some feathers. Some say angel -feathers.
With what

we deny them,
their flamboyant

In land
the startling daffodils
are thus yellow, so they dance!
never timidly, nor shyly, neither coyly.

Unfoil the hydrofoil from each vacillating
forgotten and lucid dream,
with pears to spare. Together we released
the scream from inside the lacquered drawer knob

like Alexander the great,
cutting at the knot. Some say hope,
some say succumbing to the paradox.
Even so, all the mazes

have been
victoriously emptied.