A gentleman in our village recently died. He was very well liked and there was a large memorial service for him. He was also a poet, and one of his poems was on display on top of the font. I hope - wherever he is now - he won't mind me sharing.
Sunflowers
Sunflowers, like people, stand up and
look over fences,
drop their faces against the wind,
drive artists insane.
Big yellow suns,
the compact core shimmering,
the fire-tongued petals.
No surprise if sunflowers walked,
a natural movement for their fluid stems,
the gesturing leaves.
But these bodies of fire
burn themselves out,
like a spent man bent and withered,
pathetic victims of their own fierce glory,
the ages of man,
the sunflower story.
- Nigel Townsend
look over fences,
drop their faces against the wind,
drive artists insane.
Big yellow suns,
the compact core shimmering,
the fire-tongued petals.
No surprise if sunflowers walked,
a natural movement for their fluid stems,
the gesturing leaves.
But these bodies of fire
burn themselves out,
like a spent man bent and withered,
pathetic victims of their own fierce glory,
the ages of man,
the sunflower story.
- Nigel Townsend
No comments:
Post a Comment