The Ruined Homestead
White birds, frightened from silver grass,
whose blood-rose breasts and wings are thrown
like petals settling down the pass,
flower the ruined homestead’s stone.
Rise from the fallen walls and scream,
crested, from the stark dead gum;
shatter the crystal of the morning’s dream
where I, across your landscape, come.
Roofless, the broken stonework frames
red arid hills, a valley where
the ghost-gums writhe like whitened flames
and desert-oaks droop their dark hair.
And when, in the crucible of the hills
the molten day has died, there stands
under the blaze of stars that fills
its night, a house not made with hands.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Ruined Homestead by Roland Robinson )
- Serenade To Love, David Harris
- MONSTER FORCE WARS, shannon strauss
- i write because i'm not very good at darts, Mandolyn ...
- Light, Neela Nath
- Inbetweeness-painful midlife blues, Nalini Chaturvedi
- In that april shadow, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- my thumbs were once pro twiddlers, Mandolyn ...
- Remembering Love, Ron Baratono
- Narcissus, Naveed Khalid
- Birthright, tolu ogundare