Henry Treece Poems
|1.||The Old Ones||4/28/2012|
|3.||Tears Are Two Small||4/28/2012|
|8.||Sympathy With Stone||4/28/2012|
|12.||The Waiting Watchers||4/21/2010|
|13.||Poem - Ii||4/21/2010|
|14.||The Haunted Garden||4/21/2010|
|15.||Poem - I||4/21/2010|
|16.||Poem - Iii||4/21/2010|
|17.||Lincolnshire Bomber Station||1/1/2004|
Lincolnshire Bomber Station
Across the road the homesick Romans made
The ground-mist thickens to a milky shroud;
Through flat, damp fields call sheep, mourning their dead
In cracked and timeless voices, unutterably sad,
Suffering for all the world, in Lincolnshire.
And I wonder how the Romans liked it here;
Flat fields, no sun, the muddy misty dawn,
And always, above all, the mad rain dripping down,
Rusting sword and helmet, wetting the feet
And soaking to the bone, down to the very heart . . .
The Waiting Watchers
They shall come in the black weathers
From the heart of the dead embers,
Walking one and two over the hill.
And they shall be with you, never farther
Than your bedside.
At their will
The smell of putrefaction lingers
And floor is carpetted with rotting hair;
Or sheets are torn to shreds