Old Ways By Alistair Bullen

Old Ways

 

A singeing bleak

Eye water, colours from thistle gripped nothings

Numb from a dissident space

Absence is minded by pale phased etchings

Embellishing braids of cinnamon briar, while

Flushing the tumbles of Old man’s Beard.

 

Mercury drops

A Starling backed brush to the blackening fields

All riddled with meddling shoals

Turned ermine surrenders a rumour

Of solstice, remembers the Ploughmen

The tread of the horses that folded the beds

Of the cold, tired Earth

While, over, the plovers wheel.

 

Alistair Bullen

 

41 year old male returning from exile.

Seeker of sensuous langauge, that which spells emotion into being.

From beauty comes a truth, a some time blood on snow

The wind holds more music than our greying walls ever will

Go and listen!..then return and tell!

 

 

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