As I close my eyes at troubled times
I am welcomed back to the Furnace fields,
that holy land
where wood fell over itself to be wood
and wild was the beauty like fires over California.
Furnace fields!, live long inside my dreadlocked mind,
grow snakes and newts in crispy ferns
to guard against the wretched clock.
Offer me a pond so that I may sink into oblivion,
flushing tyres and telephones from a plastic bowel;
bury me oh mighty field
let my siren be quiet within those fishy roots...
@ 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.
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