Willow leaf boats
By littleditty
- 1025 reads
(Ask Edith Swan-neck how - Sweyn Forkbeard doesn't know !)
Snap crackle pop of split willow drums up a day
of her old blown leaf ships down river, current dance or march,
echo of Maypole twirl or in slow procession: thousands
strong, their fire dragon prows lead long amber beams
as if this late summer sheen is receding ice.
Blond Danelaw gods, ancient Essex soap opera surfers
traverse to where the Ice Age last crawled stop.
And there, just above the glacier’s snout of grit,
they made their beds, Herts, a home of it.
Across those same rivers, this day would be woven baskets,
another homelander’s pure gold Saxon rods, Wessex,
last year’s cut. Like booklets these harvest baskets fill.
Like tribes to riversides, their telephone lines.
Hardback, mud ribbed, softback, back and forths.
September stock exchange is trade in story and spice.
Jug to flagonned mead bank, and how that mead pours.
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Comments
Intrigued
Was this inspired by your photo, or was it one of those poems that hovers on the edge of being written until just the right unexpected image gives it impetus to enter the world? Either way, really enjoyed reading Little D.
best
L xxx
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Love this poem. :)
Love this poem. :)
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longboats
A lovely poem Nicky and such a wonderful picture! Excellent. They do look like (Viking) longboats hey? Or maybe flamingo swans!
All the best x Nolan
Oh yes the cherries! Well deserved.
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