The Thinking Poet

 

The Dynamiter

Spring, when it bursts, blasts my soul,

And fragments of it fall before my eyes.

Skies, tearing out of winter’s grey,

Cauliflower cumulus, wind driven droves,

Like wandering sheep returning from the hills

Are face-familiar, Adam-old, yet new.

Spring is multi-coloured when it comes,

Splashing dreary eyes with rainbow drops.

This is rainbow’s end; yellows, greens and blues unbelievable,

And resurrected sun, my crock of gold.

Spring persuades me that other Springs have been,

That what I thought I’d seen from some remote cordillera

Is nearer than supposed;

Perhaps is here secreted in this safe I call my soul,

Locked and double-locked to hold my joy;

Till that disturber of the peace, death’s iconoclast,

Sets off her detonating charge within the endless vaults of time

And I perceive my wealth with wide, incredulous eyes.

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Ron Cretchley 12.3.72