Thursday, 7 January 2010


This is a story
Without a start,
That died without a heart,
And lived without a goal
To score in the final whistle of things.
Pulling up thistles for rings
And thorns for a crown;
A horn for its sound,
To fit and fly,
Have wit to lie,
And enough to ponder off.

Making bales from blades
Of grass needed
For daisy chain mail,
To wear and keep the air able.
Bearing all the scenes
That are scarcely prepared
In a field over there
Under new use,
That is the price
For employment rights.

This is that story,
Without that end,
That died without offence,
And lived without protection,
Scored in the final whistle of things.
Letting go of thistles and stings,
And horns and hounds,
For lords and crowds,
Bits of files,
Half witless lies,
And no wonder we wonder why.

No comments:

Post a Comment