Green Man Blues
Bad dreams of loss woke me at five-thirty
alone at the end of the path in the forest.
It is a loud, bright, busy morning.
A fresh black sky is barely visible
above the lowering, voracious honeysuckle,
the rutted track vanishes in turgid blue grass
and crass knotted gargoyle root overwhelms the rest.
I can neither go back nor forward.
I have no machete, no will, no sense.
A dog appears, wags politely, squeezes out through the forest gate.
I dry cry, picturing my contorted face
And bowed in shame pour coffee from the grenade.
Soon I will climb up the hawser to the treehouse
and bathe my tongue in the putrid raging waterfall.
There are always rough towels to hand
Grimbeau 