Sisson is dead
He looked out over the ferrous rocks,
The tributaries like sorrow descending,
Trailing off into the far end of the afternoon.
He would reject such personalisation.
There are no moods, sensations, similes,
But this husk of bread,
This glass of ale in the window-light –
Like a Vermeer, you would say
If you were a poet.
There is no other realm,
No extrapolated meanings:
All metaphors died the first Christmas Day
There is only the body and blood
And truth in its three dimensions:
The natural imprint of the brooding Trinity.