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SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005 |
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ALAN HILL A field in
November Freshly ploughed, Turned over like a waiting
bed. Alluvial tsunami lines Crowned by late November sun Shining like a sheet of
hammered lead. The earth lies startlingly
still, Like a day old corpse, All surprise emissions spent. No movement left to indicate
a breath Or that there ever had been
life, No warmth to indicate a flow
of blood. Land In reptilian passivity, Stalking, Waiting for its prey To stumble closer In a rash attempt to drink. On the field’s edge A cord of clay Unsure of where allegiance
lies. Sucking on my percolating
boots, Like a baby at its
mother’s breast, Enticing me to wade. Roscoe
Holcomb, Virginian The resin of the raw wood
smoke Introverted clings To every naked inch of
morning light As the molecules of day
arrive Packed tightly as a box of
figs Or survivors on a raft To rub the splintered edge of
pine Across the out-stretched arms
of stripling sun To catch the residue of tar
spat out Through remnants of the porch
stacked old The banjo string Baited in to feral shape Stretching out its European
peasant roots Conjuring the antique pattern
Of the fossil chord Holding up the beating heart To bloody mark the path Here the dislocated black and white are one An articulation of a faith That has no words Needs no living memory The tongueless ones that live
among the trees To touch the dark and ancient
breath of birds |