Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 345

Bunkers Hill

To crest the road here
Is to risk losing your balance,
And to skid down the remorseless
Slope with no control nor hold,
And even to descend upright is to
Force yourself into the unknown
Through the gap between the houses
And beyond.

There it rises, Bunkers Hill, hidden
By the low frost-heavy branches that
Reach down to caress the secret paths,
Those steep climbs from the city’s falls,
Trackless on the hard ground,
Soundless across the lifeless leaves,
The static, silent, and weeping trees,
Where death visits.

At the breathless top, the land falls
Away from the edges of the clearing,
A sudden circular void, more brown
Spines littering the shaded floor,
An illiteracy of colour, and the cold
Absence of air and breath solid
In the round of absolute stillness,
A cacophony of nothing.

This is a barrow, a grave, a cemetery,
A monument to dying and its worn
Gateway heavy with history, heady
With pre-history before language was
Word or currency, where muteness
Was its own communication, signs
And signals from heart to heart until
They stopped beating.

R, 11/12/2022, 21:15

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