Painting by Rolf Harris
“Disconsolation’s Signs”
Disconsolation’s signs, the truth will out
Through pavilions of opinion; fault lines debase
The currency of doubt, and, at the going rate,
Lethargy, even prohibitions at the root
Of talk of golden calves must crystallise as collective
Nonsense based on phantoms hid within
Themselves like obscure poesy of gaudy display, the interim
But specifics of momentary revelations: selective
Memory wants its hearing. No, if line and verse
Combines to set the tenor of the bell, what strikes
The golden instrument defines the tone, the trite
The cliché outcome, sporadic blessings cursed,
Immersed in baseless notions are the mint for multitudes
Of memory’s slips, the ratio of spirit to the limits of the fingertips.
Painting by Barry Hilton
Once 