Something Ancient, Something Old

These days there are ghosts and

stonewalls that fade whispering

into October smokelight hours,

passing slowly o’er fields where

a fragment of something ancient

happened here, whether muskets

firing, flags burning, heroes fallen,

gunpowder flash and flag-blaze

song and fielded revolts, popping

fife and drums, all repeating anon.

Burnished days are these, then—

something old and lichen-covered

remind us of when the hour rose

and fell, and fell again, to find

the field rolling gently beyond, and

now the quarried stone and hammer

ring something ancient, something

oldlike, a tomb or song sung aloud

to hem fieldstone the pasture where

the sons cried home their departure—

O, to this hone the source of desire

that wills the mighty to repeat

a mistake so often, for blood or—

something ancient, something old.

Reviews

[Heidi]

Wow. Just....wow. I love how the lines roll along, just like the field, as inevitable as the passing of time! I think this every time I pass an open field or a historic spot...what all happened there. I like the combinations of words, too! "Smokelight hours" and "oldlike". Very good!