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74. From the top of the hill on Good Friday © 16 April 2018 |
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(This poem continues my decision this month to post poems I wrote fifty plus years ago - this week's poem was written around about when I was 17.) The hills cringed green, blood-green. They were thorn-throbbed, twisted; silent down a Crumpled valley, torn green to the sea Where two ships lay silvered and Waiting for another. And on, On where the ocean turned with the sky Clouds jarred to royal purple with the mountains. The air too choked thin and weak as the Sun sank crippled at three o’clock. Is there something here which does not pass? Answer! Is there something here which does not pass? Is there nothing still? I went down the hill and Wrote what past I had before it fled. |