Baroque says nothing broken, though to break
off labours the point,
and it judders and all.
Nonetheless I would clinch this
as music’s invocation, the tuned
drum’s glissando. You
can elide changes of pressure. I believe
creation ís self-healing, a self-stanched
issue of blood. It is also
furtherance of slow exile, but enjoy –
best to enjoy – riding that vague.
Requite self-envying, to eat the heart out
for the heart’s satisfaction, is this
wisdom? Well, as the wise man said,
I know it when I see it. So much
of time is rubble. Under the sky’s
great clearances, not oúr time only.
How beautiful the world unrecognized
through most of seventy years, the may-tree ﬁlling
with visionary silent laughter. Comme si
l’aubépine – FRÉNAUD – était un presage.
The hawthorn all the more fulﬁlling its beauty.
Comme si les dieux nous avaient aimés.
As if the gods even now had faith in us.
Geoffrey Hill. The Orchards of Syon. Counterpoint (2002).