Peter Russell Poems
In The Campo De La Bragola
Sleep, sleep, with thy broken keys
Till Pilate wash his hands -
The time is cracked and memory flees
Bright afternoons of other lands.
What were thy once-tuned strings,
Childhood and fluting boy? -
Mornings of swift protecting wings,
Noons flecked with joy.
Blindly the hunter bat the twilight scours
In the dark enclosure of the Square;
Green fissured bronze rings out the hours -
The crowding ghosts halt on the stair.
Barbarian night creeps on the town.
The Councillors sit late.
Tiresias has rent his gown,
And the sentries...
A Fifth Song
The hares spring over the sea
The sprats leap over the mountain
The peach grows on the apple-tree
Wine runs out of the fountain.
Sweet breath from the panther's mouth
Sweet words from the sinner's lips
Snow blows from the torrid South
A golden grove from orange-pips