January 27, 2009

bracken valley

Walking through the blue bell wood, the smell ringing in my ears

I think of the little men who walked here for the first breath of this particular smell.

She eyed them with panic and ran fast

into the crevices of the bracken valley

Now Old John’s wood piles lie heavy among the tracks

           Marking targets for the human arrow

But even they are being forgot and forget why they are here

           Sinking into the false memory of point and reason

I carry upwards, my legs aching with the rhythm,

trying hard to keep the beat (the beat that carries me away)

Below the path, a stream sings down the scale of the incline

           Flirting with the early summers sun.

That cuts hard shaft of musty dusted light

           Through the verticals of the wood

The birdies in contrapuntal grace glide over and

above this orchestral morning.

We always were susceptible to beauty and its truth

           Often touching it with our toes before

Withdrawing almost involuntarily from the shock.

I emerged that day from leafy shade onto the top of the open crest

a feel of loss

The sun was out, was riding the arched dome to 11 o’clock

           And painted the view in rich summer colour

loss because this that was in front of me

           That once fed us with the food freely and in brotherhood

Is recognised nowt by the locals and the others

           Though it lies here in my palm and burns it.

And there I saw her as before she had been seen

           Upright and muscle bound in curves

She wore golden eyes and golden fur

           And for a moment held my vision

In curiosity. I begged her to stay, to comfort me that no bond had been broken

          

But my she bounded away in fright

                                             Into the crevices of the broken valley.


- No comments Not publicly viewable


Add a comment

You are not allowed to comment on this entry as it has restricted commenting permissions.

January 2009

Mo Tu We Th Fr Sa Su
Dec |  Today  | Feb
         1 2 3 4
5 6 7 8 9 10 11
12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28 29 30 31   

Search this blog

Most recent comments

  • Wow deep! I really liked reading this, such poetic writing, when's the next story Zebedee? by on this entry
  • I kinda want to comment on the trackback rather than leave my lame appreciative noises at the end of… by on this entry
  • I kinda want to comment on the trackback rather than leave my lame appreciative noises at the end of… by on this entry
  • Ah…purple prose :P But I love this whole concept, and I love how it's written, for reasons which I… by on this entry
  • or noone employed him , cutting stones was just his hobby, so after he became rich, he could spend a… by XCW on this entry

Blog archive

Loading…
Not signed in
Sign in

Powered by BlogBuilder
© MMXXI