Wednesday, 16 June 2010
The Ghost of a Poppy
The sun had drowsed the day,
With a mulled lucent wine,
And softly drowned the fields,
With great golden cheers,
As if a blazing barrel had burst,
Up high in the halls of heaven,
And gushed its gilding soma,
Upon the poverty of our being.
And there amidst this magic,
I saw a sea of poppies blooming,
Each head bowed in reverence,
Before Junes high fire, the sun
That sat enthroned upon the hour,
As a celestial regent in its bower.
Each seemed an ember, cast down,
Upon a falchion of falling light,
And settled soft upon the ground,
And found for itself, its due delight,
As if sent by God to sanctify my sight.
I sat amongst the low scarlet tide,
That burnt with a deeper beauty,
And watched each steady wanderer,
Follow the flames of their father,
Seeming to cast a myriad prayers,
High up into the fiery, thrilling air.
I saw them sup from the suns cup,
Uniting earth and higher realms,
Whilst swallows swooped and swept,
Amidst the high heat sweated clouds,
Soon almost close enough to touch,
Until a coruscating falcon flash,
Rent the sky with its sabre slash,
And speckled infinity with their wings.
In awe I watched the wildfire sweep,
The field that I long thought dead,
Trapped in the cold grip of the city,
A place abandoned, without pity,
Now seemed to be a sacred kingdom,
Lit with a thousand shining needles,
That each found a sighing vein,
To draw breath into its slow death,
And screaming, sigh into its bliss,
Each flower now a face, long passed,
Were ghosts reborn amidst the grass.
And I feared the reaping scythe,
The fatal rush of passing time,
That returns the fire to its pyre,
And the soul into its earthen urn,
As the wheel of the year slowly turns,
To seed with dreams the womb of winter,
The shells of men, mere hollow splinters,.
And so I lay to sleep amongst them,
In their waves, a precious haven,
Safe, as if amongst friends of old,
And dreamt of days long betrayed,
Until the night on wings returned,
And draped the day in its dark veil,
And stars threw down their valiant spears,
Against the lamp light drawing near,
And I left that field of crimson ghosts,
Restored to life, and graced with hopes.
Posted by Defender of Liberty at 10:51
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