The Poet Poem by Roy Storey
The Poet
Rating: ★5.0
The figure that ploughs this field
calls himself a man.
Of wit, of pen
the sod turns, to rise
falls on the whiplash of thought.
Vision of innocent, call to god
as the furrow turns home.
The sprit darts free.
Sweat, with earth, the seed grows
to illusions of grandeur
is this the poet.
(3/8/1987)
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5/6/2024 10:19:11 PM # 1.0.0.1119
...'falls on the whiplash of thought'... I like that. t x