Wednesday, 21 December 2016

Salt Ensign, "Water Harp" 3

'The bronzes on the avenue, the distance’

The bronzes on the avenue, the distance

Each from e
ach by definition stately, precursors

Of a lost sublime

In the dome, the shrapnel of prayers

Echoing through the vault, the precipice

Between the Word and these baubles of belief

Our refugee descriptors for an empire

When it fell, the worthless treaties, dead currency

The warrants and informers

The town quiet, its languid lanes sheltering us

Our new lives, the bougainvillea trailing brightly

From the terrace, the stones still warm in late sun

Cold winds carved the shadow lands, in the drains

The day pooled red as haemoglobin

The flag’s colours bled out, its field of stars

Folded to its secret heart

The names on our visas the names of those

Already shadows

The names they gave us

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