it was summertime
with flowers colouring the pantomime
in feudal fields
as i walked on flat wheels
with your humming bird in my head
from the tropical warm of your bed-
where we bent the grass again
and made the rain
that doesn't come from clouds
dampen skin rumpled shrouds.
i watched your beauty glisten sweetly
while i held you like Bernini
before you went to work
flaked in bark of silver birch
naked chalice south
and siren priestess mouth
of pagan church.
you were converting fussy ghosts
and their sullen hosts
from bribed tribes
walking past without guides-
some, so inverted and duped
like shades with every ethic stooped
labouring like quislings
under Darwinist siblings-
slowly drifting back to druid stones
that serve us more than glorious domes,
more equal in each equinox
of chaos turning natures clock.
i know, i ramble for reasons
to make sense of changing seasons-
and find none
where i am one-
only fallen lintels on the floor
like broken words that speak no more
at sunrise and sunset
remembering what we forget.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 14th April 2012. All Rights Reserved.