Of the earth & The Black Sheep Inn
[ poetry - april 12 ]
Of the earth
She talks about her daughter blossoming,
the dividends of years of private schooling.
Their house backs onto reams of fields
and in between our gulps of tart vermouth
the hot wind is panning for nuggets of corn.
There is ample alluvium, rays and rain here
and a well of patience. Yet beyond this,
with the yeast of pride, there is little
that raises her daily bread more than mine.
The Black Sheep Inn
Sometimes I feel this guilt I carry
is lead-flashing stolen from a local spire
whose clock is from an age when time
was wind-up, the face of perfect stress.
Sometimes I am amazed the time survived
back then, beyond the dawn and dayligone
but now there is a Swiss-made metal scarab
that sits on my wrist and rubs sand grains
between its darting hands. I have amassed
regret like the pearling grit in the belly
of a freshwater mussel, a bullet in the silt
and my lead is toxic if held for too long
but I can bend myself to any drunkardís ear
and dream of the golden sentence to free me.