Upon your held-out hand

Upon your held-out hand
Count the endless days until they end,
Feel, as the pulse grows tired,
The angels’ wings beating about your head
Unsounding, they beat so soft.
Why count so sadly ?
Learn to be merry with the merriest,
Or (change the key !) give vent to utterances
As meaningless as the bells (oh change the life !),
The sideboard fruit, the ferns, the picture houses
And the pack of cards.

When I was seven I counted four and forty trees
That stood before my window,
Which may or may not be relevant
And symbolise the maddening factors
That madden both watchers and actors.
I’ve said my piece: count or go mad.
The new asylum on the hill
Leers down the valley like a fool
Waiting and watching for your fingers to fail
To keep count of the stiles
The thousand sheep
Leap over to my criss-cross rhythms.
I’ve said my piece.