Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Alex Missall

Morning in Graveyard

In this town the fields are dead,
cut to stumps,
filled with wilted shells of over-turned roots.

In this town, all are buried in the same place—
in the cemetery
next to the Victorian, red-brick home.

Cut into the earth are
miles and miles of tombstones.

Sealing the empty spaces: morning fog
that slips between graves,
that hangs onto the soil.

A white sun rises,
and turns the dissipating fog translucent.
Dew sits on blades of grass,
and the cemetery-caretaker walks a stone path
toward untouched, forsaken land.


luiz gustavo said...

the excesses of the homeland
is the frantic cry
of is people

without food or dish
interprets his own

the plaintive protest
pattern and control
the fololhardy - pilgrims -

not for the glory
ghosts have transcripts
lattices in lightning

people or a twisted
between mist fires

but the scenery deeper
this perverse

against brutishness
glitter between senescent
splendid violet plastic

and now in a temple
between the walls of pities
- minimum dead

I remember so many others
samurai rotten
of old

for a sleek look
unread this nation weeps
at every pore

on the grounds that is was white
now scarlet liquid
are silent the last
- urban infants

we are all
hedgehogs to eat
life through his teeth

I saw the gray marble
black pain
living in these verses

where seeding stars
that the horizon
is not a lost cause

Peter Greene said...

Graveyards make excellent long-term compost, I feel. thanks for the poem, Alex!