by ernest kearney
Have the crimson anemones flowered yet?
Under the sun scorched earth the sea did take you.
And yet here you stand in the corner of my mind,
As if never gored by the labyrinthine currents,
Tell me Adonis,
Has your grave been burst by the billows which howled through your hair?
Has your smile gone to Persephone, your second mistress?
And though the tides did pull you grew and though the people disdained you shone.
Do the joy and the kindness matter when the bones are raw, and the logs burnt?
Why is your singing voice still floating, sepulchral through my nights?
Has the campfire not turned to ash and your smile to cinder?
Why is our laughter in the gloaming stronger than the letters on the page or the name engraved in marble?
Why do the memories I hold sing me a song of a lad that is gone?
Have your crimson anemones flowered yet?
A student from Sydney who like to write, read some Dylan Thomas, and enjoys roaming by night. He learnt storytelling through his brother and depends on thunderstorms in the evening to put pen on paper.