They will find you face down on a higher plain
In feverish exaltation for Spring Gods who would keep
Your belly swollen. A coat of woven grass with tint of fern
And olive now abandoned. The crimson vigour of an Alpen rose
Marauds the rolling verdure valley. Light up here shimmies
Swirls about a bearskin cap, hardens your glance. Charcoal
Tattooed hands move swiftly to the arrow wound.
They will find you with a stone disc and backpack.
A copper axe made of leather, yew and birch tar.
The one that would cleave your path in history.
They will find you speaking to us through an Alpine Ibex.
In fruit, grain and roots slowly fermenting inside.
They will find us contained within you;
Through your bacteria, which half of us now share.
Our Poem of the Week submissions are now open for September, on the theme of It’s The End of the World As We Know It – click on link to the call for submissions page for more details.
Please read the full requirements on our Submissions page, before sending your work.
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