In mortal cradles
bodies do they sleep,
bombed to tears,
in earthly threads.
A bitter walk on city bones,
frost an ally
strips of soul (kept here for towns to mourn)
as ancients rise to glass lambs
and wild prayer.
How sleep the morbid brave,
whistling for capers
and reigning sin.
Who is who?
Of carpet cadavers?
The skin trilogy:
birth
and disease,
and dying in a rosy shell
as wolf takes hold...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
More poetry from Welsh poet/writer Steven Francis. Described by one reviewer as "the poet with a magic microscope into human emotion", Steven is a fascinating walk into a dawn where the sun reveals everything...
