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

emeralds

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