Circling above the crib in plumes of calm;
a hawk, but not of beak nor talon soars
crying sonnets from a nettle raspy throat.
The king phantom,
a ghostly touch and ode to the ivisible;
corpse shavings
rammed into sweet shells and smothered
into wafer horses.
Hold back those lily crisp creases
and kneel before a song of ages,
the death pages toll their eternal winds...
@Steven Francis poems 2011
Slip the noose of dying and madness for a time and share some observations with Welsh poet Steven Francis in this, his 5th collection of poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment