Archive for this fayre

This Fayre

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 24, 2011 by dc

Most of this town is a graveyard,
Most of these gardeners are bleak,
Geography and history holding hands
Like lost prisoners seeking sunlight.

Electrified in strange fields,
At one with the pylons and grief,
These gardeners feast on fresh game,
Picking shrapnel and bones from their teeth.

This fayre could soon be a farce,
There are clipboard conversations
Over daffodils and marrows,
Dead dogs in the bushes,
Weird secrets alive with the sparrows.

These gardeners are spent with smiling,
There are ill thoughts in the wind,
Their children are in bed early
And their wives are mannequins,

The red sky is a warning,
Panicked chatter sits in sync
With the wild horses in the stables
As this town sits on the brink,

The park will soon be a shrine
For a prize too quickly departed
And its bench a resting place
For the freshly broken hearted.