Burgundy, the word, intones
a cold wet colour, the way
mist clung to gravestones,
the way we clung to daylight
grim though it fell on things
in that burgundy place
and all those strange names
coiling in and out of moss,
french or english they mean bones
nothing more, the name
we gave young bones, fresh cries
at a baptisimal font,
spiritual slap-on-the-arse.
and it is sadder here where a child
who can no longer cry
lies deep on a mattress of his father’s bones
and an eiderdown of his mother’s.
a small, holy family for sure
they had their golden hour
she wears burgundy in her photo
her mouth smiles it
the greatest flower
they planted, pressed between them
now, dried between pages
pressed between bones
bookmarked by stones
one afternoon
all grief turned burgundy
at home, his sister played
funeral in a doll’s house
painted her mouth burgundy.
that is what it means now,
what the colour has become.
one small sad child in a lonely room;
another, half in heaven, half in clay.
[…] Our featured poem this month was from Edward Power, caled Burgundy, charting the colour burgundy throughout his piece in a sad, lonely way that keeps consistent throughout. Read the poem here >> […]
Great to see a new poem from Edward Power (not Dwyer) -as always, full of intent, with a quiet intensity about what preoccupies.