Paint-lorn gatepost,
trellis,
fence;
windsock flutters
at a touch
of breeze;
starshine sings
its subfusc
song. Speak, old
ghosts, wherever
you may be. Come
straggling
through fields
and over
stiles--
ford the grass-
less pastures
wild time
has gnawed.
With rusted scythes
and secateurs, open
the veins
of the past;
gather, you souls
at the edge. Gather
your joys
and dreads
and scatter them
like stones--
so heavy, so cold--
over the furrows
of memory,
the ever-
burning effigy
of the child
hang-
ing
from his tree.
trellis,
fence;
windsock flutters
at a touch
of breeze;
starshine sings
its subfusc
song. Speak, old
ghosts, wherever
you may be. Come
straggling
through fields
and over
stiles--
ford the grass-
less pastures
wild time
has gnawed.
With rusted scythes
and secateurs, open
the veins
of the past;
gather, you souls
at the edge. Gather
your joys
and dreads
and scatter them
like stones--
so heavy, so cold--
over the furrows
of memory,
the ever-
burning effigy
of the child
hang-
ing
from his tree.
Thomas Farr is a British writer of fiction and poetry. He enjoys travelling, running, cycling, reading and writing, although he doesn’t enjoy writing author bios. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Livina Press, Tales to Terrify, Aôthen Magazine, the Jupiter Review and elsewhere. He tweets @tfarrpoetry.
Copyright Thomas Farr 2022
