Ode for the Stranger

Standard

Holy fire come light my bones

with words that wound

and strong sound

and lowings lifted like cattle-moans.

 

Open skies decry the rain

that settles in

soft as sin

to burst and bud in flowering pain.

 

Past the churning sightless brook

lies that fell down

nested town

like a blighted nameless crook.

 

In tattered rags my lover lies

a sight made sore

my eyes pour

and something flickering in me dies.

 

No craven shadow will I hold

nor pantomime

tainted time

with brazen bonnets clutching cold.

 

Grow strange this night averse and cool

that now at last

new found past

leads this faithful following fool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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