Edith Sitwell Stumbles upon Clumps of Sundew
Still the dew—
translucent as raindrops
sliding down the furry red frills,
the sleek green cheeks
of leaves—will fall
like the rain.
Dark as the bog
from which it came, black
as the moss on a starless night,
soon the moon
will falter
in its course. Soon, the sun
will bleed at the feet
of starving men, and then
Beelzebub
. . . will know them.