The Poetry of
Jack Scott


Wind flutters cobwebs
upon my vacant grave.
The spider’s gone
wherever spiders go.
What is this motion mocking life,
a moth against a globe of penitence,
a butterfly attempting flight
away from overtaking night?
A gust of memory,
a draft of sorrow,
a current of remorse?
Or is it just my preview
of coming events?


423 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.