04-26-2011, 06:50 AM
Today, an April evening and long shadows
Poured onto the peppered slabs
Parched gold scraps broken through concrete patchwork
Behind the old tower blocks away by the docks,
Within the pale, gloom of this Easter, a bird I saw, drown
By the old flour mill, where many years ago,
Tired slaves rose up on an Easter day
Bestowed the walls a history place as blood and chains were shed
A sacrificial slaughter to feed the earth,
Who opened her jaws and swallowed a seed from their lives.
A struggle for life, the spluttering ripples passionately spewed
Serenaded by the gluttonous gulls, a crying throttle
Behind the monuments of the past, and the new
A touch of salt, and wet, stings the air; the sea is not far
Collapsing visions of collapsing swells, a snowdrift flaring
Fuming into inkblots, the haze and distorted hues vanish
By the futile flapping, the bird through the tar canal
Flying through treacle, clay upon wings,
Perhaps tricked by the comatose sky
Paralysed, the bird dived, thinking carelessly of beyond, what lies
A gulf not easily passed, but by the skeletal wings,
And as the clay hardens and becomes heavy
“The sea is not far, will the bird reach the sea, and be free?”
I wonder, watching in perversity the poor body succumb,
The bird vanishing through the black-oil glass, dying
Below my feet, beside the rust-screeching train galloping
Into night.
_____________
Maybe for some context, it was written in Dublin, Ireland, and in reference to a real mill. Just a hint
Victor.
Poured onto the peppered slabs
Parched gold scraps broken through concrete patchwork
Behind the old tower blocks away by the docks,
Within the pale, gloom of this Easter, a bird I saw, drown
By the old flour mill, where many years ago,
Tired slaves rose up on an Easter day
Bestowed the walls a history place as blood and chains were shed
A sacrificial slaughter to feed the earth,
Who opened her jaws and swallowed a seed from their lives.
A struggle for life, the spluttering ripples passionately spewed
Serenaded by the gluttonous gulls, a crying throttle
Behind the monuments of the past, and the new
A touch of salt, and wet, stings the air; the sea is not far
Collapsing visions of collapsing swells, a snowdrift flaring
Fuming into inkblots, the haze and distorted hues vanish
By the futile flapping, the bird through the tar canal
Flying through treacle, clay upon wings,
Perhaps tricked by the comatose sky
Paralysed, the bird dived, thinking carelessly of beyond, what lies
A gulf not easily passed, but by the skeletal wings,
And as the clay hardens and becomes heavy
“The sea is not far, will the bird reach the sea, and be free?”
I wonder, watching in perversity the poor body succumb,
The bird vanishing through the black-oil glass, dying
Below my feet, beside the rust-screeching train galloping
Into night.
_____________
Maybe for some context, it was written in Dublin, Ireland, and in reference to a real mill. Just a hint
Victor.