For if that which is done away was glorious, much more that which remaineth is glorious

Wednesday, 15 May 2019


Can scorched doors of perception be rehung?
Chains of time, molten, were reforged a ring
That Lord its bearer walks 'neath every sun.
A furnace, blown hot in hell's harrowing

With love's late breath, made liquid history's core:
Fashioned to freedom by fire of burnt flesh
Sorrow times seven has tempered mixed ore,
Clean bathed and bright is it lifted now fresh -

Ring, hammered by God, smith naked in sweat,
(Lo the anvil his will, his nerves, his brain)
Wear then, crushed soul who pay death's hard debt;
A world forsook is thine. With iron rod reign.

Yet opened wounds depart to poem's haut throne,
Steel pen that gashed its way through flesh and bone

Sharp tears the sonnet's sky, rent flesh scarred soars
By burnt leaves named wide everlasting doors.

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A Blackbird of Shere