The Humility of Lichen
The little things we never think of, such
As lichen on black rocks in forests we
Have never seen—New Zealand stones—a Dutch
Man wearing wide-legged woollen trousers he
Pulled on that morning with his jacket for
His uniform, or white, white, white blooms high
Above the Great Rift Valley, those that pour
Down from a moonlight cactus sent, a sly
Hawaiian gift, to shine when other blooms
Have disappeared beneath the Kenyan stars,
The ancien regime with silk-walled rooms,
And long-lost triremes with their sunken spars,
These, these are rich brocade inside the brain
As soundless as a pond in fog-like rain.