Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

the sun soils red
    jacaranda’s purple trail
leads out like an avenue.
    Heralding a tree change
the flame-throwers display
    their brighter city flags.

If I had come ten days ago
    I would have seen her in full bloom
not as paper petals
    laying a retrospective carpet
for those to come.

Africa’s hot winds stretch out
    the days like washing line
white, uninterrupted,
    the season for rain is late again,
blanched natives gather in the streets
    saying it was not so ten years ago.

The first person I meet is frozen,
    uncarnival-like son of a diplomat,
his midas handshake moves forward
    stiffly as a bird.
Is it a black-masked weaver
    or a golden oriole?
It does not light long enough
    for me to tell.

He takes me up into granite hills,
    the blue arrows insist
there will be a place
    of emboldened spirits, sea fish,
men with lizard faces.
    I expected to see spears laid down,
fire, the tribe in the vicinity;
    my disappointment is brown paint.

I look at the pair of burnt out eyes
    hoarding its wealth of impressions
but not setting any store by them,
    they are relics waiting for visitors
to find evidence of having lived.
    I look at the paintings and note the shapes -
surface engravings
    indelibly distant.

A bus load of children arrive
    to learn about their history
to find the promise which always lies
    further into the cave.
Relieved by the noise, I escape
    from the lost vivid interior,
(outwardly) homesick for something.