A Fawn In Days Poem by R. H. Peat

A Fawn in Days

The fawn is dead upon the emerald
field where milky narcissus bloom
beneath cold oaks and buckeye trees.
The grass there: lush, turgid blades:
knives— tickling the blue of clouded
sky: an ivory moment undone: broken
shoelace: snapped: finished within
that strained pull toward tightness:
unfolding buds: little bells that dangle.

The fawn is that rancid carcass
that brings poet's sweet bursting
fuse: wind-fingered: tongues that
drive: lap and touch the balm of
stilled grave: white floret on stems
thrust from rows of underground bulbs.

The fawn's fur riffles in the breeze,
and the jay's laughter rings with distilled
truth here: spring's hard shadows move
through the tall oats: flesh of the dead
fawn sliding into turned earth: frail
crumbling remains into moist soil: soil
back into bone-bright blossoms.

This is the fawn's beautiful song: bedded:
lulling silence in the shade: a dream curled
under the leafy duff: a sole desire placed
as an open record: a reach from beyond
the sight: a star deep in winter's night:
chilled bone: a lonely stone wall: one spent
casing by the road's edge: a pulled flower
from the green field wilting in the vast


© RH Peat 12 - 8 - 2019.
From: 4 Parts: 4 Stophes,31 lines, Narrative
Published: England: 'Nature 20/20' Pg 54
Willowdown Books — 2020.