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Evening Primroses

David Constantine

They open the way this little porth 

Fills up under the window: 

Quietly unstoppably, but are


Not pulled by the moon, the dullest twilight 

Works them deep enough 

And the damp imago clambers into the air.


This I had patience for, this I could watch 

Through all the starts and restings 

And even when they looked to be hovering on witholding


Then my credence 

That I had feared dead in its clamped shell 

Beckoned them further out.


It bowed me again into the aura of your face 

Again into the scent of what it feels like 

When love, frail thing,


Forces itself into being seen, the unstoppable 

Helpless, the unbelievable 

Beginning to be believed


Whose opening scent is like 

Warmth off the moon 

Or the cold off your face when you entered my house and home


Sweet love, sweet breath of it 

From these tall flowers, from their pale faces 

Opened on the air, earthy. 


From Matter No 6 (2006)