Untold

[Mark]

.
In a tangle of dead farm machinery
the horizon is now a tall forest
of tiny flowers unbroken
by my sudden fall.


My thick blood is a liquid rust
settling into the cool dark soil
for a reunion of man and earth.
And the ever sky seems slated
to drown in grey serrated rows
torn from the calmness of blue.
I overhear the urgency of birds
in a languid code foreign to me
and I see ants in black on green.
I question the failing of the sun
for my neck is prickled with cold
and cobalt sparkles close my eyes.   
I hear people  in the meadow below
calling out my name, searching for me,
but with false voices from the lost past.      
 
 
  
 

[Dave]

This is both a powerful and interetsing peom Mark, very different to your usual poem. While the imagery is strong - easiyl imagined, I did wonder whether there was a way around using so many modifiers. Some are intense and original as in dead machinery and liquid rust others are less so - tall forest, tiny flowers and especially cool dark soil, which borders on cliché. The ever sky is great the calmness of the blue, while visually fine is also less strong.

In other words, an exciting intense story and scene with some powerful and arresting images aligned with what seems like filler. I would love to see a revision concentrating on those arresting moments, the urgent ones.

Dave

[Mark]

Hi Dave, thanks for your comments. Apologies for the delayed response, I was away in Cape Town this week. Yes, something a bit different, a sort of extrapolation of a quad, for once. A one-session write, late at night instead of shutting down my PC. I'll come back to it at some point. Cheers, Mark.