yawing
with the wind of villagers out of sight,
shaded
and turned around corners of the past.
Whispered
the siren call, come find
the
invisible ghosts crying in the night,
of
that bloody last-supper howl,
why?
do I return somnambulant?
My
skeletal being leaping from the top,
of
the top, of a day way back,
when
the blood oozed perambulant,
annealing
in the fire of a sunset crop,
or
a diamond-dusted coal sack,
burning
in the emptiness of a whiplash sear,
as
I turn to say to ... to ...
But
they were here! They are here! Hiding
in
the eye of the seldom seer.
Sapped
heroic as the tricycle boys who,
spitting
on their bleeding knees, go sliding
grassed
forever flashing in their bejeweled tears,
shrieking
in the devil may care
of
a shimmering summer’s day.
It
was as if a galaxy of light years
had
rimed our bumper-boots where
running
wild sent the marsh marigold spray
flying
back onto the window seat's last bus,
where
beside every mother's warm hand
the
night flows by, and all the imagined
boy's
own darkest thoughts, must
press
heavy on the eyelids of time's grand
design,
to sleep down upon the marriage
of
a child's glad confident morning,
golden
on the haywains,
and
the vertiginous edge teetering,
at
the crumbling of the days.
May
this poem be my pillow,
as
I lay down my final dream.
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