mk_tortie | These Four Stone Walls That Hold My Past

I got all... poetic last night, I guess, but in a weird way. I was listening to Arvo Paert's 'Cantus in memory of Benjamin Britten' - oh, so beautiful. And the words just started flowing. So, here's the results:

A Song of Life, and What May Be

I have not grieved, nor breathed my last
The coldest stone is yet the coldest
And past, and time, and war, and blood
Are concepts still not grey with age

I've seen mist hang heavy in the glen
A watercolour blur, damp on my cheek
So I am spared deepest despair
And desolation, and fear, and hunger and thirst

And the small grey church is still a home of sorts
And the open fields are bleak and free
The wind snaps at my cold-appled cheeks
I close my book, climb down the wall, and walk the long hard road and leave.

~

Answers to Questions - a poem in four parts

And the glass of the house is open and empty
And the eyes on the ceiling are staring and wild
And the lover's embrace is of ashes and embers
And the stones of the path are the teeth of a child

And my mother is often alone in the daytime
And the answer is given and gladly received
And the scream in the woods does not break when you squeeze it
Although you may squeeze it as hard as you please

And the nightmare of blood is not over when waking
And the sun is in bloom from the dawn to the dusk
And the sweet scented swift seeking stream in the garden
Ambles over the gate like a bird with a crust

And my father is right that I'm glad to be lazy
And the fox on the grass is a stranger in flight
And the chances they took on the heath after sunset
Are the only escape for the bewildered tonight.

~

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These Four Stone Walls That Hold My Past

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