R E Mason Poems

I see the harvest washing through the field,
Papered husk of old hag's face,
Disguising its heart of gold.
I see the skylarks circle overhead without purpose or care,
...

Clear sky, sun rays down,
Burning stones, scalding dust rise,
Leathered face, tanned hands.
...

Squat neck; plucking pimpled, wash-day grey,
Saline beads on pock'd beak,
Repellent to civil sensibilities,
The odious stench of putrid falsities.
...

It is good to see new life in the old dog learning new tricks.
When all thought of juvenile playfulness had vanished from your mind,
Like fresh spring shoots,
Emergent in hidden crevasses and dark corners,
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Prisoner to one’s own kin.
Milky pallor in shadowed chamber,
Radiant solar beauty never to kiss child soft skin.
Dreaming of ruddy skinned harvesters,
...