Near Tintern Abbey was a River Wye
Of its remembered bio-luminescence
When words are much worth of life.
Fireflies are lights , before not dead
Before they do not dive down to sea
To shine to fellow fire-flies imagined.
We may shine false loftiness in a sky
To imagined fellow fireflies in words
But our words die sooner than night.
The phosphorescence is bone things
That you see roaming night’s wastes,
As phosphorus of poets’ dead bones.