Listen to poem:
Death Blows a Fiery Horn
In a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider’s last breath,
and on your grave sings a haunting raven
in the shadows of the valley of death.
Between trembling leaf and pohutukawa
the undertaker’s men stood grave and bier,
and brave stoic life filled the living hour
forevermore a day, a week, a year.
These time echoes rise up from its bones,
and that lone raven's song on pit row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when its flame bearer blows its fiery horn.
But far more does sound a haunting in me
as if your faint voice my ear passing through -
and I trapped betwixt next world and earthly
sit this day communing with God and you.
Today I upon this ploughed earth sullen gaze
and hearken in the blooms the winds of death!
Its cold foul blow that bodes ill all my days
dares to breathe on me its cankered breath.
These time whispers rise up from its bones,
and that lone raven's song on pit row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when its flame bearer blows its fiery horn.
Written: July 1995
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