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Sunday<\/strong> Of the tallest oaks and sycamores are lit. I name my flowers: foxglove, poppy, rose\u2026 Begins to peel the coverlet of day, Of silence, time and space I’ve nursed. While claiming depth, each voice defines Away the comfort of deceit The spiny fruits in which its seeds are found, Though God, alarmed by Nimrod’s tower, to tame <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Phil Vernon<\/strong> lives in Kent in the UK, where he returned in 2004 after two decades in various parts of Africa. He works as an advisor on peacebuilding and international development. He mainly writes formal poetry, finding the interaction with pre-established patterns of rhythm and rhyme can lead in surprising directions. His poems have been published in numerous magazines, journals and websites, and been shortlisted in competitions. A micro-collection, This Quieter Shore,<\/i> was recently published by Hedgehog Poetry Press. Some of his published work can be found on his website www.philvernon.net\/category\/ Sunday \u00a0 I. In shade is cold. I face the railway bank. Each fresh wet blade of lawn is trimmed. Birdsong, a distant plane and muffled train Augment the silence. Topmost limbs Of the tallest oaks and sycamores are lit. Coffee drifts from the dew-damp table. A robin hops and pokes the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17908","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17908","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17908"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17908\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18081,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17908\/revisions\/18081"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17908"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17908"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17908"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nI.<\/strong>
\nIn shade is cold. I face the railway bank.
\nEach fresh wet blade of lawn is trimmed.
\nBirdsong, a distant plane and muffled train
\nAugment the silence. Topmost limbs<\/p>\n
\nCoffee drifts from the dew-damp table.
\nA robin hops and pokes the shadowed soil
\nBeneath the feather-leaf maple.<\/p>\n
\nDew pools like mercury, on watertight
\nNasturtium leaves. In measureless time, I find
\nThe perfect rhyme, and summer light<\/p>\n
\nSlips effortlessly down the bank towards me
\nBrightening, and creeps across the grass
\nTo touch my feet; abruptly warms me.
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nII.<\/strong>
\nFrom Sunday’s topical TV,
\nVox populi intrudes in drifts
\nOf sound, insisting lazily
\nOn infiltrating all the gifts<\/p>\n
\nIts current casually blows
\nThe floating phrases into verse \u2013
\nThough scarcely quickening their prose.
\n\u00a0<\/em>
\n‘… So why should I work hard to pay<\/em>
\nFor them to sit around all day?’<\/em>
\n\u00a0<\/em>
\n‘The vulnerable need our care \u2013<\/em>
\nI’m more than proud to pay my share.’<\/em>
\n\u00a0<\/em>
\n‘They take us for a bunch of fools:<\/em>
\n‘If they live here, they follow our rules.’<\/em>
\n\u00a0<\/em>
\n‘Well I, for one, just don’t subscribe<\/em>
\nTo the kind of Britain you describe.’<\/em><\/p>\n
\nItself in shallow tones as pro
\nOr con \u2013 as though to part from lines
\nAlready drawn would be to throw<\/p>\n
\nAnd live in panicked fear \u2013 and swells
\nWith self-reflection to repeat
\nIdeas which paraphrase themselves.
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nIII.<\/strong>
\n… afraid of synthesis, we stand around
\nThe tree which grew within the forest while
\nWe looked away, and each in different style
\nDescribes the contours of its bole and crown,<\/p>\n
\nIts leaves and inch-long thorns… And thus profile
\nThe traits we see, but make no common trial
\nOf whether it will heal or harm our ground.<\/p>\n
\nUs gave each tribe a language only He
\nAnd they could speak, His trick was not to name
\nA multiplicity of tongues, but the
\nIllusion that within a single tongue,
\nBy sharing words, we share a lexicon.<\/p>\n