Black Darlings

https://i1.wp.com/4.bp.blogspot.com/-vw-J_9NiLak/UAQS-bB0AvI/AAAAAAAAXXY/F_L3ORQL3VE/s1600/Pels,-Winslow-Iron-John-01-end.jpg

I was that man in the woods

A life in woodsmoke and flame,

Fed well on fish and fowl

Turning ashened layers of soil and clay,

Sharpening my father’s blade.

 

Sat below the rising buzzards

An iron spoon in one hand,

A lock of golden hair clutched in the other,

In our fire lay

The body of the mother.

 

True love flaming bright

Lights each star and rock,

The moon reflects across the lake

Guiding in invisible ways,

My other half is dancing;

Moving away.

 

Sitting on my crown,

My arms tire with the weight

Of these burdens.

Am I able enough?

To bury myself

In the garden

On the darker side of the moon,

Hoping for white feathers

And black darlings.

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1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    Love the photo the poem is beautiful.


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