“THIS BRITAIN” by edenbray.

dragons head


I woke one day in that awful season pulling wallpaper from the drabbest wall

I heard the cuckoo in my head, that sound I had come to dread and larks ascending

Descending, on an unmade bed where art lives for arts sake neath a poem of bard Blake

For that is only what we seek.

The roads, the valleys, the ripened dreams in solidarity,
To a handful weaved of a ghost aubade in speech
Evoking contingent flames unmourned, and embraced
As the shaken birth from the morning, I starve the feathered dreams,
As I no longer follow through with the nightlong autumn near the glass,
I hope we don’t forget each other, and that we will remember
The wind that passes through the roots, and the river rocks that sought for better dirt

We’ve lived nothing as a dream.

I wake to the darkest light; the marshes cry in the mist,
And my eyes fix to the shaking of the wind, grazing the footfall by the permafrost,
It is a maddening world out there—the roads beaten, unlit,
Crawling of a cedar’s blood
Slaved in an undressed pottery polished in white lines