Friday, October 30, 2015

Ware, a poem

a sonnet

The truth of every day is bought and sold
in bright bazaars that entertain the crowd,
with barkers' urgent voices rising loud
lest by some chance a different tale be told.
Hear us! they cry, for all you need we hold —
this and no more than this may be allowed,
and any other swiftly disavowed
as we our lurid tapestries unfold.

Go find forgotten corners of the square
and gather up the words that lie there lost;
I'll fashion songs of them and night's dark air,
hold each, remembering what it once cost.
What coin for those with such fine unsold ware?
Only the shining pennies children tossed.

Stephen Brooke ©2015

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