Poem by Walter Howard

Photo by Bill Perrault



Old Deacon Blackbird

Old Deacon Blackbird seeks
with stolid deliberation
           his lost watch.
Award. 50 Years Faithful Service.
Porter aboard Death's grim train.

Today the proud sun sports
           his vest of gold.
Sad mother moon slowly draws
           gloves of lavender
                     over her long, cold, slender fingers.
The flowers, their ballet over, their radient faces, poetry
                     wither, fade.
In the distance, the train's thunderous piston thrusts,
         its deafening wages, die down the tracks.
Beneath the grass' green
           serpent's mouths
           shrouded guests
           ants,
           pools of quicklime
quietly rage!
While the hard chestnuts, about to fall, dream their last dreams
in the trees.