Fine Black Things

There were fine black things
a cow horn, scrimshaw
tracery of a dozen winters
of springtime showers
summer sun, and autumn gale
marrow drawn out, wolfed down
two hundred weathers ago.

There was a leaf, corrupted
arteries, delicate capillaries
eggshell porcelain
turned dun, then inky
one blind footfall
away from dust.

There were old knuckles
flaws and wrinkles
cracked black with
soot that wouldn’t shift
fused, palm, thumb
and finger, to the smooth
grip of a blackthorn.

There was soil, rich as sable
pleats and tucks, dungeoned
under cattle grid ribs
and above, the angry germ
of the storm, bleeding light.

And there was the dark
and the muttered hum
of the church, where
my mother chatted
with the village women
as she wove black iris
lenten rose, violet
and scarlet lipped sage
into an arrangement
called ‘Gaudy Night’.

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18 thoughts on “Fine Black Things

  1. The “cracked black with soot that wouldn’t shift” ~ a look at how I would like to feel after a hard days work. The feeling a get from reading these words, the flow and cadence very much in rhythm with spring for me.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. I know what you mean. Sometimes I just post a poem the way it has come out without editing and looking back now some of them could use a little tinkering!

        Liked by 1 person

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