Wake Now, Horizon

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

Serrated Light

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