Marc His Name
I feel the force, the splatter gush,
excited beaks and flutter wings,
slide silver breaking into green,
low dipping lap, screen flash of play,
blue rider yet to camouflage,
translated oils, babble controlled.
Through fractured wheel and curve of spouts
the drink and splash of birds and beasts,
see, mark the joy our Frank revealed.
There cubic spin, a twisting square,
now wall-paper or placemat style –
Merano – not confused with glass –
I finger, under mountain top,
of Tyrol, nature unreserved,
emotion, primary declared.
Though does this scene bewitch, enchant,
a subtlety, not synonym,
suggestive hold, a Mesmer sign, familiar,
or more delight,
spell-held without, attract within –
sure this the meeting, outside in?
Before trench-art had stolen frame,
and broke gilt boundaries of hope,
until his world entrenched Verdun
where dreams lay soiled,
laid waste in grey, mud dun and gore,
where blood poured red, poppies recalled –
and stolen lives included his;
he knew enchantment.
Frank his word.
Marc his name.
Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over 100 pieces accepted by on-line poetry sites, including Nine Muses Poetry; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform, A New Ulster Poetry Magazines, anthologies ‘Pain & Renewal’ & ‘Identity’. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/