Rolling glass cut the angels
as morning waves sincere
fall on modern hell.
Barbed chins needle their way to totem halls,
man made phantoms, all we are,
the vertebra of salted humility made good.
And though the vows of architects
stretch carnal orders of squad fired lines,
the furies dial repent;
and all awash
the dry clutch collars of sanity
slot limbs into gravy stalls
where sober envy fails to kill
a court of shaded vandals...
© Steven Francis poems 2013
'The Heron Ponds' is the 7th collection of poetry and short stories from Welsh poet, writer and blogger Steven Francis. Enjoy!
