Monday, 3 June 2013

A Remnant

No, not a sonnet,
Flush with fervour
Like a Victorian hymn;

Not an ode, nor an elegy,
Sweating like faces
With the tears of truth;

But a bone
Sprung from the furrow,
Crazed with the runes

Of the inarticulate earth –
Such, such is my love.
Dear, will you risk a finger

On these splintered pieces,
Bathing them once more
In the balm of your hand?

© September 1984

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