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d--~, - · 
('..t 

~ 

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Scott Taylor 

Descent 

I've known this sort of underworld before, 
Where the soft lamplight sways against the gloom, 
And a soft arm slips back to shut the door 
As shadows slowly curl across the room; 
I've known the last faint traces of perfume ~ 

That settle with the shadows to the floor 
As the soft lamplight sways against the gloom, 
And a soft arm comes sliding back for more 
Than I can give - but I cannot ignore. 

An arm sways slowly back to lock the door. 

Scott Taylor 

Between the Gates 

Alone, between two broken garden gates 
My pensive lady plucks a single rose 
Which, gathered to her lean breast, intimates 
The long forgotten lawn where best it grows; 
She holds if firm, but lightly: for she knows 
That curled along its length the lean worm waits. 

Alone again, she lifts her dress and goes 
In darkness, where the frozen river flows. 

Scott Taylor 

Triolet 

I grow so weary of your wind- blown ways, 
My brittle leaf: I thought you held a fruit, 
But a dry line barren nature betrays. 
I grow so weary of your wind- blown ways; 
You twist, I listen: but the winter says 
Nothing for one so withered at the root. 
I grow so weary of your wind- blown ways, 
My brittle leaf. I thought you held a fruit. 

16 




