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...
The white body of my Beloved
Is a stone on which is inscribed
All dithyrhambs psalms and epics
Shaped of the winged and holy words
Whether of holy Sion or of Helicon
Inspired It is enduring marble
Carved in my heart and marshalls
Like bees to gather where it will
My errant senses visiting flowers