Older than even the stars
and old poem
I can smell it
as it rises from some quite
Behind those rocks
in the waft of the quartered wind
I sniff around for it
famished and sleepless
my heart is restive
looking for the fossil
of the ancient poem
I asked the staring fern
by the dead river
is it there? is it?
the ferns kept mum
the ridges and crags of hills
the mysterious mushroom
I dig below roots
I harrow the shadow of the fossil
on some moth eaten page of history.
Older than even the stars
something my words can not measure
a strange poem
the poem sprouts in the olive sunshine
laughs, writhes in pain,
cries in agony, dies.
The poem get back life
like a child the poem goes mad
in teeming moonlight
I wouldn’t stay alone
On moonlight nights
the fossil of poetry
beckons so.
