Wildflowers are weeds
& dead poets
parked
beside the road,
two ways, flashing,
splitting ways in half
& timekeeper ticking
a thin, plastic heartbeat.
*
He would like to turn
before the turn; for the road
lies
again; in the distance
it holds up
treeline spine
of sky and field
& shows how pages
press a dead flower
of a man.
*
He writes, third person.
Will someone decide?
Words, tiny, mean bones,
cannot.
Only a body contains
a promised land.
*
Today the breeze
is fresh truth.
Every field makes its path.
Every path is not a path.
The dead blooms strangle,
contentedly; to be killed
just enough
to bring back to life
the scent
in the colour
& slant of ache.
– ph 30/11/16 – Hamilton