Yester-Place Poem by james watkin

Back around Time's corner, no comfort
To concede, looking in
On which buoyed plane, laughed up and down is
Past a street's re-mounting.

Nothing there but provokes of a more
Absurdness in a sigh.
In what, weary intoned, out-whimpers all
On graveyard winds that die.

Yester-place shimmers. Only what gives
Its golds' foil-light, suggests
To the earth proper have not plunged these
Thunder-moods; lightning-zests.