POETRY ~ by David Robert Tellett
Perhaps it is the colour, which invades the orphan verse;
It breaks, and wheeling, tumbles down before me. Whose flowered widows lay within the silent-rhythmed hearse,
Unload these paper trucks of cancered theory.
Perhaps it is the colour forced upon and inside, each
Emphatic bud; a church bell struck, uncertain
Breaths which fall in Autumn tenderness then speak
Of darkest visions held beyond the curtain.
Perhaps it is the colour, which invades the meadows pane;
Dark insects of the hollow boat house, knew
Of secrets in the wood which live on, deep in splintered frame
That burrow down to nerve and muscle-sinew.
Yet how are we to know you in the greenness of the chase,
The lamb that falls to fox before Spring’s gate?
As wake of Summer, turned to bed; a whispered prayer’s place
To dream the fall of sleep’s elusive weight. ~
© David Robert Tellett. All rights reserved.
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