A Field Of Bones



A field of bones,
Scattered across the plains,
Skulls and skeletons,
A thorn spine,
And needle,
Pierce my side,
Blood coils in the sun,
Ashes dot the wind,
Cinders spun,
Of plains of mighty dust,

A village,
Of war-torn distress,
Remnants of a town,
The shell of houses, scorched,
Desolate in the wake.
The silence of this place,
Haunting, the ghosts who stay,
Frames and corpses,
Chiselled to the core,
A field of bones,
Left to settle the score,

A flower grew, in the harshest of conditions,
Under the burning sun,
Among the skulls of the unsung,
A red bloom, of lonely plight,
To dazzle this horrible sight,
Growing more beautiful by the day,
Showering herself with the sun’s rays,
This little floret, nurtured by the elements,
Cultivated the plains,
Amid the field of bones,
Flourished tiny buds of red.




Pretty little floral flowers; in yesterday’s bloom. 

Crushed Flower


A wire fence
An orange sign post,
Black bold letters read,
No Entry,
A dimly light alleyway,
A grey sky overhead,
And a crushed flower on the sidewalk,
Petals trodden,
Stem compressed to the tarmac,
Trampled in feathery press,
Vexed in complexity,
Dense upon the path,
Carelessly walked upon,
The wilted flower sulks.

J.Calvert 2015