In the eaves of this ancient place
nestled in what once grew free

a feathered ball of gods good grace
its eyes plucked out no longer see

and further up toward the nave
sweet Jesus bleeds for you and me

a crown of thorns which Jokers gave
though fashioned from some crueller tree

and here below we raise our eyes
still sighted clear though not as wise

as those now passed and gone before
who closed them dead beyond this door

so what is clearer to be seen
What is to come or what has been?

© Wolfgar 2020

A flower now so open toward The Sun,
unshielded from harm in fleeting perfection

knows not the seed from which it was begun
nor fears the darkening skies that prophesy rejection.

We see that undue power in the faces of the young
who with momentary glory believe it is forever won,

then with that memory captured we hold it close a while
and like a bloom toward the Sun we raise our heads to smile.

© Wolfgar 2020

 

Under Sack Cloth between The Cracks,

In ditches by The Workman’s Tracks,

Beyond the Bawdy Ale soaked House,

The Scarer Wakes with Field Mouse

 

The Dust of Bones that fell in France

Was scattered here to bring advance,

To farmers fields with Heavy Plough

Our Dead are churned to feed us now.

 

A Bastard Boy no Mother Mourns,

The Blasted Cannon of Empires Dawn,

His Clapper Claps to scare the Birds

Each Clattered Beat Drowns out his Words.

 

Across these Patchwork Jaded Hills

An echo gently whispers still,

Of all the voices never heard

Drowned out by time to scare a bird.

 

© Wolfgar 2020