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Skylark #FBPE #FollowBackFriday #PoetInBrexile Why Europe matters
For Isaac Rosenberg
The rat who nuzzled your hand one day,
beneath the Flanders sky the poppy
Tucked behind your ear
White with dust...
A shy lad your narrow ascetic face,
Peers from the cloudscapes,
For Isaac Rosenberg
The rat who nuzzled your hand one day,
beneath the Flanders sky the poppy
Tucked behind your ear
White with dust...
A shy lad your narrow ascetic face,
Peers from the cloudscapes,
Above wheat,
The hiss of traffic
Where the motorways snake into Germany
The horse hair whisper
Of the sea...
I sense you here,
The touch of the rat's damp muzzle
Still tingling on your hand,
And over the wire and mud
The sound
Of German voices,
Your face,
The hiss of traffic
Where the motorways snake into Germany
The horse hair whisper
Of the sea...
I sense you here,
The touch of the rat's damp muzzle
Still tingling on your hand,
And over the wire and mud
The sound
Of German voices,
Your face,
Powdering out at the edges of dusk
What will remain of us
Are only the echoes,
The stale liberty we lose
As we forget.
Let me stand with you and listen to the skylark.
What will remain of us
Are only the echoes,
The stale liberty we lose
As we forget.
Let me stand with you and listen to the skylark.
#PoetInBrexile #Poetry
Other lives
McCall has a port wine stain and avuncular smile
Arshad's white hair is tinged with nicotine,
Riley combs his hair over the scalp in a dark arc
Their talk is the hubbub of geese on the lake,
I hear from another room. Their campfire
Other lives
McCall has a port wine stain and avuncular smile
Arshad's white hair is tinged with nicotine,
Riley combs his hair over the scalp in a dark arc
Their talk is the hubbub of geese on the lake,
I hear from another room. Their campfire
Ghosts of smoke drifting through Autumn,
I weave their life together from scraps gathered
At the edge of the bus station concourse or
The dank shadow of the concrete overpass.
A trilby left on the greyed timbers of a park bench,
With a bottle of vodka sweating condensation
I weave their life together from scraps gathered
At the edge of the bus station concourse or
The dank shadow of the concrete overpass.
A trilby left on the greyed timbers of a park bench,
With a bottle of vodka sweating condensation
A dark flower of urine blooming on the trousers
Left in a bin bag somewhere. I slip into the clothes
I would only call freedom if freedom is a drizzle
Permeating the landscape of self. I lean back
And feel redemption slide stringent with saltwater
Down a coastal shelf.
Left in a bin bag somewhere. I slip into the clothes
I would only call freedom if freedom is a drizzle
Permeating the landscape of self. I lean back
And feel redemption slide stringent with saltwater
Down a coastal shelf.
