par John Welson
« My Valley ».
Brooded hills
covet history.
Trodden fields
mist crept.
Metal plough
silenced path.
Sheep crossed
flock creased.
Crow foot valley
streams amble.
My valley.
Wind kissed trees
blink at blood.
Stone wall fingers
gripped earth.
Buzzard warned
torn stomach.
Rain parched
soil breath.
Silenced air
gate open.
There is a scent in this valley
but only I can birth it.
It was given to me,
gifted,
there is a scent in this valley,
rain parched, wind kissed,
sheep crossed,
on my eyelids
my valley looks into me.
I do not raise my eyes,
sun up, again.
—–
« A Lost Map ».
Now look here,
It seemed so very strange,
Some one left a poem out to dry in the sun,
Like a raison, dried at edges.
A dog passed
smelt the blood of the poem and ate it.
No one turned their heads.
Nothing ceased to ripple.
The dog pissed against a tree
and the poem trickled down the street.
Cats ambled from the shadows
sniffed the poem
and carried it off
to feed the kittens.
No one turned an eye to watch.
Nothing caused a rumble.
Kittens blossomed
covered in words.
Stanza fur
suckled verses
voiced rough tongued of eloquence.
The circling crow
caution to the wind
sees kitten dressed in milk stained words,
dives
and pecks the kittens eyes.
The blind mused kitten
stumbles through blackened streets,
its stolen poems
sunless
gaunt
devoid of vistas fresh.
No one turned their heads.
Nothing ceased to ripple.
Fruitless map
no path.
The liquid drama
evaporated
suffix,
confiscated horizon.
Pallid obfuscation
yawned ingratitude.
—–
« Untamed Time In Waiting ».
Each stone unturned
precious lies retained.
Stained reflection,
the mirrors curlew call
washed clean.
Libidinous salivations
caught breathless.
Hollow fruit
sucked sallow seeds
the swallowed sanction
suggestion fed,
the hungered childs
feeble grip
lies breast free,
dust soaked,
flag clothed,
the rage of battle.
The hesitant soldiers grip
fumble fingered
trigger tied,
slumber eyed,
mission cried.
And dawn
sun spawned
smells of vomit.
Unturned stones for pillow,
tortured slumber
offers its jagged rest.
the blistered peace,
the shape of memory,
now red silhouette
ungraciously adorns the day.
—
Poems John Welson 2018 – Peinture du haut, Whale Dance 2004, ci-dessous, sans titre ©John Welson
