Shock shortens the line
(wars break it, but roots recover).
The oblivions of sleeping time,
unwind, resile, renew.
Where it is raw we rue;
but in pastures new we hush,
have flowers remember for us.
Oh, despite Nemesis,
(liver-devouring eagle)
and Furies powdering noses,
until the carver downs and outs him
(Wyatt* will wave him
from grave shadows with a rattling grin),
Marlowe will play, jest along ginnels,
as on any stage; the court, the cart, the tavern.
Words are for all seasons, and none.
..............................
*Sir Thomas Wyatt - the Henrician poet and spy. Christopher Marlowe - the Elizabethan playwright and spy.
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Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
