Sunday, 7 February 2016

Poem for Sunday: The Thinkers

by Sian Latham


The thinkers play,
Confining coats of white move to and fro,
Never stopping - brains of metal-
Helpless beneath chaos and order


The trees scream,
Written, riddled, runes carved into layers of dead skin,
Digits, destined for the burn of acid
Scribble on apocalyptic bark, riddles of promise-


Walls off white,
House the hords of labeled prisons
Watching- like the owls of old- the devastation
Looks of fear behind rimmed eyes seen


The thinkers fear,
Relished as they have the abandonment of faith
Words once spoken fact; shunned.
Yet the fire dies, coats release and white walls close in-




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