Stormfront

Written to mark the end of Summer

 

We went by
   the storm front,
      the wretched shelter
that calls itself not
   Home, but some poor man's
      refuge. And in the gathering
valley of the clouds
   waited not for an order
      or for the stillness
that comes only in the second
   before the pressure
      suddenly rises.
Rather sat mid flattened
   frosty blades
      and admired the sky-surf.
Not all that is white is pure;
   a man must discern
      what will last and
what will be lost to him.
   Didn't we watch the clouds?
      And did you smile?
The airy fields were white,
   a cloudy crystal
      and the sun was obscured
by a foreboding landscape
   and still the cool air plays
      across your skin and seems
to freeze your actions
   and you are unsettled
      and search for warmth
that you may come
   to rest and be not
      unsettled.
And does not the warmth
   seem to mingle
      with the cool air on your arms?
I thought the outcrop
   seemed to whirl
      and all about it was misty-grey.


The sun came out
   one August day
      and so inspired
the townsmen to erect
   a great pavillion under which
      the squires and yeomen sat
and drank cider
   and all about the auction-
      fayre that sunny noon
were children and lambs
   for the sale. You did not know
      for you were with me.
But I heard first-hand
   Of how the sweating
      merchants came to town
and bought the whole flock
   to the dismay of
      the country-folk
who would not eat
   and would there-onwards
      not give harvest thanks
for there were no lambs
   the following year
      but you didn't know.
I never spoke of how
   you appeared that
      summer day.
Suffice to say words
   had no meaning compared
      with the way the sunlight sublimated
the dust on your arms
   so close to white
      barely exposed the whole of summer.
Were not those English fields
   our own?
      Did we not claim them?
And were they not
   marked by your presence?
      Did you transform them
as you transform
   the corruptible materials that adorn
      you into a more noble nature?
Or did they change you
   somewhat? You who knew not
      the poetry of dust,
the poetry of quiet mourning
   that is subdued
      by summer dirt
that it may prove to be
   some strange sacrament
      and may still make me clean.
Could I sacrifice
   those precious hours
      that you may be more aware
of the slaughter of innocents
   that you may know the horror
      in seeing a crystal stained?
I could not be so selfish.



I'd rather live this
   morbid life made worse
      by never knowing you
yet have you
   born safe into
      the ministry of Christ.
I'd rather save you
   from this world
      and let you not be
corrupted than see you
   fall as you must
      the change made worse
for knowing your beauty.
   Shallow words indeed
      to say I'd die.
For you I'd commit
   my Soul to Hell
      and a greater suffering
than I have known for you
    are my religion
      your purity is my prayerbook.
You are the Saint
   who knows not congregation
      who will be my test
and who is tested.
   There is no white
      so pure
that it be not polluted
   there is no love so great
      that could be sacrificed.

Reviews

[Freder Fredersen (aka G..]

Well, Sam,

This was brilliant. I read it front to back in seconds. From the metaphorical language to the concrete movement of the lines....loved it!

Cheers!
FF
GM
BOB
XYZ