Last on the withering post – the nail
that held the droppings –
veils of rain and such things
that waltz as silk and linen
wood-pinned to wire and such –
things that carry load like bridges.
We hang as moss from bridges
pinned and mired as such –
gravity defiled in veils of dropping –
folds of waltz and linens.
Green the languors, grey the rust,
yellow the haunts of rain,
hung from wire, nailed with lust,
we hang from moss like midges.
Image: David Wood on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Wonderful imagery, pace, peace, imagination. The more I read, the more I realise that you are a great wordsmith; the language for the sake of the language, coupled with fascinating pictures flashing through my skull.
Pectaylor
Thank you, Peter. Of late, I’ve playing around with sound and repetition, less concerned with meaning, and more with generating a mood.
D
I think that getting the mood right is seminal. Doing so opens doors and windows in people’s minds, providing limitless scope for interpretation by (hopefully) greater numbers of readers who enjoy the challenge/opportunity. I don’t believe that any good poet will spend long on ensuring that there is a single “correct” meaning – after all, you can never be sure that everyone has a uniform interpretation, however hard you try. Gems are only gems in the sandy desert, a place where they really shouldn’t be – but it’s
the getting there that’s important
Pectaylor
I totally agree with you Peter. Conveying a single “correct” meaning is the work of essayists, not poets. Our only mission, in my mind, is to carry readers into their own experience, make them reflect on their lives through ours. By carefully cultivating a mood, a feeling, however abstruse the language is the key to getting to that place of communion with another.
D