Poetry by Jay Macpherson (1931-2012)

Formless we meet and struggle like the sea.
We touch and bind, but all our cords are sand.
Above in the sad head,deserted stand
Bones of arcade, cellar and gallery,
A solid city, and the living band
Of language coldly stars the vault its floor.
But one remembers what we were before,
You my crown palace, I your fathomed land,
And the containing angel sets our loss a shore.

-poetry, September 1957