A Poem About the Dying of the Light
In the dusk in the dark of old Dalmuir Park
a bird sings piercing sweet
a sweetness that pierces the heart.
And I'm thinking while walking that if I wore
seven league boots, I'd leap that two tiered
high land arc and land on the brow
of the skyline hill where trees
are crooked broomsticks
their rumpled crowns smudged inky finger marks,
then I'd dig my heels in sparse spongy grass
and I'd srape my soles on mossy green trunks
and I'd carve my name inside a heart
certain to crack in the hereafter years
then I'd bounce down the hill
like a runaway slinky and step on those roofs
so far down below, thrust my hand deep inside
the Turneresque sun and come to no harm -
steal a gold sovereign and roar like King Kong.
If I was a giant wearing seven-league boots
I'd head for the duck pond, ignore all those gulls
with their bright yellow beaks
that fly off the railings
like planes coming out of a planned flight formation
I'd swallow the water, eat a mound of mud pies
maroon all the mallards and gobble the crumbs
flung by all those whose hearts are warmer than
newly baked bread. Soon enough they'll be dead,
If I were a giant wearing seven-league boots
I'd take nine giant steps backwards
and meet me as I was by the filigree fountain.
I'd follow me past the stream now a dragon
multi tongues licking flames and I'd shadow me
under necklets of lights and the magic of lanterns
to the big flower boat lit up like a mini Titanic
to the arc waterfall where we'd watch together
a rainbow full of water tumble down
with a gushing a rushing - an almighty roar,
as in the dusk and the dark of old Dalmuir Park
that hidden bird sings piercing sweet -
a sweetness that pierces the heart.
a bird sings piercing sweet
a sweetness that pierces the heart.
And I'm thinking while walking that if I wore
seven league boots, I'd leap that two tiered
high land arc and land on the brow
of the skyline hill where trees
are crooked broomsticks
their rumpled crowns smudged inky finger marks,
then I'd dig my heels in sparse spongy grass
and I'd srape my soles on mossy green trunks
and I'd carve my name inside a heart
certain to crack in the hereafter years
then I'd bounce down the hill
like a runaway slinky and step on those roofs
so far down below, thrust my hand deep inside
the Turneresque sun and come to no harm -
steal a gold sovereign and roar like King Kong.
If I was a giant wearing seven-league boots
I'd head for the duck pond, ignore all those gulls
with their bright yellow beaks
that fly off the railings
like planes coming out of a planned flight formation
I'd swallow the water, eat a mound of mud pies
maroon all the mallards and gobble the crumbs
flung by all those whose hearts are warmer than
newly baked bread. Soon enough they'll be dead,
If I were a giant wearing seven-league boots
I'd take nine giant steps backwards
and meet me as I was by the filigree fountain.
I'd follow me past the stream now a dragon
multi tongues licking flames and I'd shadow me
under necklets of lights and the magic of lanterns
to the big flower boat lit up like a mini Titanic
to the arc waterfall where we'd watch together
a rainbow full of water tumble down
with a gushing a rushing - an almighty roar,
as in the dusk and the dark of old Dalmuir Park
that hidden bird sings piercing sweet -
a sweetness that pierces the heart.
Page(s) 3
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