WS George
writer
composer
Our Brother Fell Back Home
They found me adrift somewhere on the Volta
dead, or asleep it is hard to tell:
I do not speak that language anymore.
My dreams are filled
with the Gospel and cheese;
The angels are white and Heaven is cold;
Some said Winter had come early.
“Wait for Spring to shed your old clothes,
then frolick with us in the wild…”
They dragged me onto a bed of reeds,
among the crabs, school children
(by their age, not uniforms)
had come to see the spectacle.
I heard them giggle, some circled me
and sang to wake me up,
or mourn my death, it is hard to tell:
I do not speak that language anymore.
~ Tuesday, December 16, 2014
- The Demon at my Bedside
- On Contemplating the News of a Friend’s Death
- So Far, So Very Good
- Three Poems for a Friend
- The Death of Princeford
- The Artist and the Builder
- I must have Drunk too much Ambrosial Wine
- Our Brother Fell Back Home
- On Beauty in Music
- Written with Permission later that Evening
- When They Come Asking
- Mary May
- Hello, World
- From Beyond
- Change
