Thoughts on a ballad? Needs kick starting . . .
History
Old earth, your reek
of creaking light just
makes a vestibule
of shaggy willow;
asbestos skies leering
as low seething rape fields
in yellow quadrants
ravish Suffolk.
Blow weeds, give in a little
as roads toil by each genetic
plot, and I still reach past
gratifying rust
of old seas towards
the dissolute fen.
As a king billows
in inner rain or swaps
old raids for worm heaps,
coughing blades of milkwort,
ragwort, unwind the
ideal beauty of misuse,
and roughing it
I wish the best weeds
would bow
in an old hoo haa
like Beowulf, so glib
as he dawns beside tribes
bellowing in the sunk glades
one last time,
as we note the seed
spores, the nap
of the flowers washing,
swish, swish,
below the frigid warp
of the dyke.
All the best
Chris Emery
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
|