At the Farm Window

The horizon sulks with a gallows on its back
hanging dead wood and sinking stars
as curried clouds clamour for the night.
In my left eye, daffodils and newborn rabbits
cower from deadly weeds and satanic looking wolves
frozen in my glassy right.
Nature, as far away as television had intended,
halts granite ravens with mossy riffs
for butter lilies to rise from dew,
the morning glass.

A sightless explosion,
mother seeds in union
shattering the window with a mortal blast,
kneel deep in those wild, clove prayers...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

Jade of Night

I only speak with family in dreams
where eyes are flat and voices low.
No longer trees go by in seconds flight,
life is hesitant where tombstones grow.

©Steven Francis poems 2013