Clouds tip their ball bearings into the clockwork
and as steel falls into laps of scarecrows
hurrying to their stretch,
engines rev lifting smoggy fumes of cities
into the peace land.
Water raising oil
to the chin of sleeping cubs,
framing windows of cluttered horizons
onto walls of wild woodland.
Iron scenes riding on the diesel
cutting through haybarns,
pulling on the tail of the free walkers.
Busy scents ransack nostrils
bury streetlight in the mud…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
The 3rd Collection from Welsh poet Steven Francis. More Song, less Blood but the laments are always the same....
About Me
- Steven Francis
- I started writing in school and discovered it was the only thing that could hold my interest (apart from sex). I knew from the lump inside me that some creative channel had to be my direction. And be good or bad it is some kind of legacy.
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