Spring by Robert David Verdon

See, see where Christ’s blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

as the chilly wheel buckles …

from     the rock, banded by iron drought
from                  the dry rot of winter
from                                the hard enclosing garden walls

of stunted ranges
each peak a balletic point of morning dream
of distant mandolins of mist, fleeting as a bird in a mirror,
pirouetting on the surface of a fingerling stream
as you open your eyes, throat tinder dry, and lost

— a mast, the sky sways,
a vein, the sky swells,
the dark park branches
blossom with dawn
over the jagged benches
with the sigh of a brassy blast —

it comes

            water is sweet
            once more,
            and the rain is not vinegar
            the sun rolls too quickly
            along the ecliptic

Robert Verdon
Robert Verdon has been writing for may years. He once belonged to Aberrant Genotype Press in Canberra. He came 2nd in the 2012 W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize, and was Highly Commended in the 2012 erbacce Prize, UK. His books include The Well- Scrubbed Desert, Her Brilliant Career, & Before we Knew this Century. He is currently completing PhD on the imaginal scene in poetry composition. His hobbies include cycling, walking and 10-pin bowling.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s