While musing o'er the dale at my door
of rosemary garden,
down the lane in amber woods,
first frost of falling winter snow,
cover'd with sheer taut surface, a broccolli,
beneath the bed of crimson joy;
half-way between the carpet upon
her stumbled feet upon the sand dunes:
of wayfarer's clime beside the oak,
some dry leaves of book in autumn
by the western isle in silent hours of soliloquy
against the setting sun in whose age-old love
at Christmas eve in yellow-pages of history,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown
o'er the wall on high by two lovers dead,
a straw hat on knees in ruffled feathers,
of crowquill thy iron car at matilda's farm,
our little john, in nurslings of immortality,
plays a hunch for the parade under the Archangel's brow,
of clay and wattle-made thistles by thatch-eaves is run,
hung aloft the ghastly night my shipwrecked dreams,
of what to my mind still this world of ages that are dead,
full fathom-five thy battled bones can ne'er illumine
of darkened earth's infernal grove her skin-tight dream,
shook off her head like a soring thumb impression.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, October 10,2016.3: 00 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem