Rolling dumb – what offence such vital blood
Ran cold in your black and impudent mass.
You yawned and gobbed that gift with tin and sod
To baser phlegms, ‘till, sea-swirled, it was dross.
And, kissed by that truth-blistered hand, you brayed
A coarse cough, not moved to keep Pity’s node,
Or hold the final flush of sacrifice,
Leaving just a stone for innocent eyes.
Yet, it’s right the flow smites, like tide of shells,
Doubling love for those lines that ‘scaped the mire
And rang right up to a week from the bells.
Right, too, so short a flare here doused its fire,
Where, with span quarter-spent for future fame,
The poet perished as writ was his name.
Image Credit: Francesca Nava
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