Come 100 years
swift on a minutes trail
where footprints lead to blind valleys,
time is simmering.
Wild nettle haven ,
a childhood deja-vu,
time all hallowed ground
already sunk when we were kings.
And time not so eternal
rises in our throats
as we twist busy necks for better views,
to choke those sanguine dreams
of hemlock lords and angels.
Man leaves without whisper
as mortal bones care not to scorch the shilling earth.
Into scented trenches fall,
reminding nought of favoured hymns
or food.
Our mark here fades
as tails leave for the cancer doors...
© 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!
