He Talked Of... Poem by poppy miller

He talked of...
He talked of fog and turbines
Pounding through high seas.
Her metal, dipped below the spuming fret
And him, naught but a play-thing.
Like a rat in a pit bull's jaw,
Flung to shore amidst the kelp.

He talked about the mountain,
Whipped by the teeth of bitter gales;
No shelter from winter's moan
In darkest night,
Wildly echoing through soulless dead trees.

Of blizzards cutting the rock's face
Leaking water falls frozen in their tracks.
He said, "It was my old greatcoat and
Want of food that saved me.
Hunger drives hard old man" then smiled
contentedly.

He talked, (almost whispering.)
The melody of his heart
Singing louder than his tongue,
Of crystal springs and the bloom
Of the snow-white apple tree.
Of swallows sinking, floating through
Milk white clouds above the valley.

He said, "Don't build me a pyre
To sail the seven seas,
But bury me high in purest air
To listen to the fjord's tongue
Sing letters to the mountain graveyard."

"Bury me there, " he said.
"Aye, bury me there"
and talked no more.