Yesterday’s Hero

The Indian,

Indigo Blue

he writes a tale

a tale of two


burned upon the amber sand

of the never never tree

in a far and distant land


of torpid

terracotta tile

waiting for

the wisdom while


of morbid

midnight black

that deeps the river

tide to slack


with the gradual grey of

sentiment’s cement

the sawbones set

the jawbone’s lament


on the fructal fractal

gooseberry green

am I

most surely to be seen


in camouflage

chameleon brown

that paints the night

swift on the town


the ochre joker

of mulling spice

makes November yellow

now with seconds twice


the lachrimate lime

that cries the willow spring

to trouble the rock’s

mossy beards


and crimson cheeks

that embarrass the silence

of thoughts now naked

upon the quarrelsome tongue

that does not its bidding


the sinew sighs

and tendon truths

stretch the pleats

of darting eyes

to fold the flower

in many, many ways


the unctuous urgent olive

oils the wheels


sensuous sexual sesame

eases doors apart


tender tenuous turmeric

makes the finger mellow


and daring daredevil

diamond white

breaks first the fabric

in the night


now garrulous girlish ginger

cleans the teeth


to comb the spicy saffron

colour of her hair


and the thunderous wondrous


in her eyes

now pick the enchanted wood


where languorous limpid lily

marks the place of rest


 And now peeling persimmons

in the bell

to pepper the point

of an argument


the juniper jury

makes a bitter call

to whig the fig

of caring


and the pockmarked face

of the passion fruit surprise

sends quick a shiver to the eyes


wrinkled desert dates

speak empty plates

made arid by

the hand of fate


yet written in the stardust trail


the sparkle tundra grass

hints the faintest footfall

of the dawn


sewn in the iridescent cloak

of Jack’s frosty winter coat


in seminal bible black

and the blood of Cardinal red

I see the smoke of the dead


to raise yesterday’s hero

on Agnes’s fiery dance


now warm on the mantle

of the hearthside shelf

to talk the vase

with blackened pots


and brew samovars of hope


the frame with fractured glass

does not write the ages on his face

nor does that twinkle in his eyes

cease to follow round the place


and in the raindrop window

to hear his voice


to make the timbre

of the temple drums

as blood beats the

question if


and quickly blush

to turn away

and place a linen

on the frame

and haste to blessings count

of a different name


when no one is looking

still to turn the page

and count all the letters

of that different age


and if it loud enough

do say

then it must be true