OBEMATA

 

Three Poems for London

 

in the gathering grief

 

with flames

your bones wear into stones

 

with eyelids wet

you weep in scents of formaldehyde

 

in the gathering grief

you were the cradle rocked by death

we were your bones we are the stones

 

in the present

  

it's a day for mourning

we turn in as in a procession

 

as in a sea of mourners

we gather waves of our tears

 

in tongued silences of grief

we curse silently 

 

over candled noon

memories incandescent

 

it's a day for mourning

a lone piper's piping the last post

 

in the future  

 

there will be flamethrowers

they will singe your flesh

they wear your bones into stones

they will trail your mirth-

a kind of fireman you are

you shall douse  the flames with your heart.

 

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Sentinel Poetry #34

ONLINE MAGAZINE MONTHLY ...since December 2002

September 2005  ISSN 1479-425X

Editor: Amatoritsero Ede