Pointing a tremulous fester, both blue and old until the morn,
Who were the buds of overside, those ending
keenly at curly nail-tips, and whitened chalky manes;
A muscled crypt of myrtle borne and seaside shallow?

Crows with beating burly stalks, a thistle bird of sickly
feathers. Those mercy words that swell the moving butter
churns, turn to ice before the quail, egg and all are none
the master, nor do the pine bark sing in lofty tails.

When hearth or bracken, the skeletal birds of mine to keep,
do suffer seek me, a pretty child, the virulent member
or monstrosity come; hither there be no rhyme to coddle,
as reek I do of morning chill or ported wine.

A murky shire of chestnut trees are moaning, that cold
burrow song, a priceless dog or soldier keep me not afraid.
An hour of sleep before the morrow, spent and careful
into the farrow. Fields are kept a plenty by the shrouded dowsing rod.
Books are blackened, warming hands like spreads of ballads,
the honey pot, a ripened callous, where hands meet gloom and
loamy earth. Inside the keepers graze a jealous muffling hum,
while parts of me reside within that rotting, muddy study.

Β© copyright Eve Redwater 2011


8 thoughts on “Pantry

  1. Your style is unique, weaving a pattern of almost medieval profundity and mystery, where the inanimate comes alive and life itself hangs by a tender thread… I think I’m trying to say I like it! πŸ˜‰

  2. Yes, David’s assessment seems about right to me. And I do enjoy these ramblings with you, too. I just never know where you’re going to take me in these murky lurkings.

  3. Forgive me, new blog-friend, but you seem too young to have all of this inside you…where does it come from? So beautiful… What a treasure…thank you for sharing it with us. πŸ™‚

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