12-18-2012, 09:10 PM
The winter sun had barely raised
above the dark moor parapet
when wounded quick, fell bleeding into sky.
In haste, o’er fallow fields, I set
a wistful hope, that climbing high,
the certain death may be delayed.
From sodden sods a trail broke clear
up to a coppered wood of beech,
Fraxinus, grey and ashen, lofting tall;
higher than the shade could reach,
on bright branch, sanguine light still falls;
then out of nowhere came a tear.
What thoughts upon me wet my eye?
This wooded copse, a winter eve;
the silence of the windless, frozen air?
Perhaps to sit and guiltless grieve
for all those lost, but still we care,
and though we climb, like suns, we die.
Tectak
December 2012
( This is the last of the hearse-verse.....I am back on the scotch)
above the dark moor parapet
when wounded quick, fell bleeding into sky.
In haste, o’er fallow fields, I set
a wistful hope, that climbing high,
the certain death may be delayed.
From sodden sods a trail broke clear
up to a coppered wood of beech,
Fraxinus, grey and ashen, lofting tall;
higher than the shade could reach,
on bright branch, sanguine light still falls;
then out of nowhere came a tear.
What thoughts upon me wet my eye?
This wooded copse, a winter eve;
the silence of the windless, frozen air?
Perhaps to sit and guiltless grieve
for all those lost, but still we care,
and though we climb, like suns, we die.
Tectak
December 2012
( This is the last of the hearse-verse.....I am back on the scotch)