“But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I may well be, Ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say an Ave there for me...” -Danny Boy, Irish Traditional a trio of fires passed the sea falls whiteness white noise of photography and networks and all-day coverage whitecaps and paled faces sea ships and summer hands the wait was plenty for every midnight filled our drying throats adorned our throbbing necks with the jewelry of terrible days that anchors our American kinship the name is still struggling glowed still glowing the cities of incense one to another give the signs of the cross is from the head to the heart from the head to the heart glowing the Vinyard shores thicken under swarming locusts Assembling to devour with their fishing eyes looking for a fault looking to be the first with the reason whatever the reason the groundwork is still set for the weary pasttime of public death from the head to the heart and back again the kingfishers still bolt to the sea not giving a damn about coverage and networks and their ten thousand purple versions of the same pain and glory it is the kingfishers that bolt a little less quiet of light a little less bright in flame the kingfishers still crying salt tears for little princes gone away (For John-John)
Reason for writing:
Just my own way of dealing with it. It's not quite a finished piece, I might have to rewrite a few lines.
Birth sign: Taurus
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Kat Nicol.