Of what was blackest:
the hair, the eyes, the garments and all
he falls and catches
breaks and runs
and, finally,
lies upon the grass.
“oh how I wish I were the grass he laid upon”
spoke the village grave
“I wished he kissed the earth
when he came back from battle”
spoke the village grave,
“I wished I were the smile that played upon his lips,
beneath that black sky and the perfect ebony tides”
spoke the village grave,
“I’d be the blanket warm he kept,
that when upon the rising
gets discarded on the bed, he is saying:
too close, too close-
cry in the tomb when all the people are sleeping
adventure plagues my mind the most”
Sopke the village grave, nodding at the truth of it
prodding at the root of it
and wont to budge, trying fervently
to break the soil of it’s long dawn.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 