consonantberry

Whip Made of Bliss

In Poetry on February 24, 2012 at 11:37 pm

There’s a hill in the curving horizon
There’s a cloud in the vast rolling blue
There’s a dream in the ground that grows golden
In that flat naked country
Where my soul grew its roots

There’s a house in the vanishing distance
At the end of a road baked in sun
There’s a truck in the shade of a sycamore tree
By a field with a day’s work yet done

There’s a pause in the sweltering labour
As I raise my canteen to dry lips
There’s a trickle of water runs cold down my chin
And it burns like a whip made of bliss

There’s a sigh in the golden-tipped whisperers
As the day bleeds one long last release
And the west trickles rays through the stalks in the sea
While their shadows drain off to the east

There’s a porch in the wake of the sunset
There’s a pipe glowing softly subdued
There’s hope at the bottom of every wishing well
In that flat naked country
Where my soul grew its roots

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