By james777 on
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Let your unformed hand touch this ancient root
Time has anchored on the raw possibility
Where darkness in the wet Caledonian clay still-
Clings on those dried lips where living has taken,
And given more than the Tenants plots could cultivate
Over the unmarked graves of each weary labourer,
Where the cemetery trees hang; when life didn't bloom
Nor sway their bodies to delight in those cruel necessities,
They lie here now abandoned in a sanctioned field, resting-
They say, where the numb mind casts its momentary shade,
No more upon this child rubbing the roots and clay
Fathoming those old mysteries in this, curiously, newborn light.
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