Page 69 - THE BOOK DEMO

Bergolo Tale

Hills ham
up the role of hiding
snugs, a nook, a plant-strewn plinth.
Giovanni blames himself
apiece for losing the young.
Once, a calling-up to stand
was heard and passed
from buck to buck until
they split life from limb and lay
awake, below ground, to wait.
Oh, their castigation!
Like the heavy bellowing
of the overcast and the overwrought!
Brought iron-slung water cans to feed
the graveyard overspill.
Since, another generation passed
another blindness stayed the course.
And fresh vessels moored
or lichen ripe, or grapes a’plenty,
or warm stones and songs
left new ones cold.
To the city, they run.
Mother of the town insists
they’ll be like tendrils: once
against the grain and then return
to fill with more than smoke.
“More bellies filled, like cello babes
of wintered wood, un-splintered”
“Wince only when something short”, she says,
“is flung across your path.
Since all you throw, apiece, is caught
and lands askance
left, last.”
Kai Roland Green

68