OBEMATA
Three Poems for London
in the gathering grief
with flames your bones wear into stones
with eyelids wet you weep in scents of formaldehyde
in the gathering grief you were the cradle rocked by death we were your bones we are the stones
in the present
it’s a day for mourning we turn in as in a procession
as in a sea of mourners we gather waves of our tears
in tongued silences of grief we curse silently
over candled noon memories incandescent
it’s a day for mourning a lone piper’s piping the last post
in the future
there will be flamethrowers they will singe your flesh they wear your bones into stones they will trail your mirth- a kind of fireman you are you shall douse the flames with your heart.
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Sentinel Poetry #34 ONLINE MAGAZINE MONTHLY …since December 2002 September 2005 ISSN 1479-425X Editor: Amatoritsero Ede |
