Sentences of gaudy glory
Snatches of old songs
Faded radio crackling in and out
Neither dead nor a foreign country
the past is our unhallowed present to the future
Long branched and deeply rooted,
an old oak spreading over ancient fairie forts
eyeless guardian of the witches’ sabat
there’s magic aplenty in a flag
there’s plenty tragic in raggedy pride
in bluebirds spitting fire over the white cliffs of Dover
or small boats carrying both storied heroes and sullied zeroes
What an evocative poem. I'm not sure of your intention but it makes me think of D day heroes and how we once rescued people from French beaches but now sadly, we allow them to flounder on their own
Oh that's really nice, Mark. I love "Bluebirds spitting fire" and the "eyeless guardian of the witches’ sabat"
Just wonderful use of words and echoes to play in the windmills of the mind...
Mark, I thank you for this, to read a poem and be captivated so instantly, to feel both imagination and intrigue so easily is poetry for me.
I love a thought provoking poem. Thank you.