BALLAD Poetry Reading: the brushfire, by Alani Hicks-Bartlett
New Releases
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1m 29s
Peformed by Val Cole
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the brushfire
if all the injuries were just words of smoke,
dawn could falter but still would come before
you’d have the timber from the fallen oak.
the sputter of the mourning land and folk
who cry and burn, lament and then deplore,
if all the injuries were just words of smoke.
since grass grows high and thick and likes to choke
the hallowed hills, the flaccid waters’ sore,
you’d have the timber from the fallen oak.
the blaze would rather vanquish than provoke;
do not cry if there was no glut or gore,
if all the injuries were just words of smoke.
dark glances hanging heavily to yoke
the twisted, blackened strands that you adore,
you’d have the timber from the fallen oak.
and with these presents, with the great clock’s stroke
you plead for time renewed to build some more.
if all the injuries were just words of smoke,
you’d have the timber from the fallen oak.
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