A Fool
Verbs and nouns now bleached and blown,
no longer speak to eye nor ear
except to say ‘time goes on
and all is gone but I am here.’
The meadow is the valley’s crown,
the valley is the mountain’s queen,
the mountain is a minor king
among the appellation rows.
At center of this sylvan scene
stands a statue firm and new
of a woman just past girl.
A bouquet in hand,
a bride waiting for her man.
But her glory will not come
for he refused
to be cut from the stone
and cracked beneath the chisel’s blow.
The meadow at the valley floor
is a riddle to the yellowed road
that twists to follow the mountain wall.
And because there’s nowhere else to go
the tarmac glides past smiling crags,
intimidates the hanging cliff,
glides down through a final turn
and stops at a sign hung low:
‘A fool is buried here.’
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
