Old Heads
Old heads, leaning bodies supporting clusters of gargoyle grins.
An illusion? Simply a confusion of a thousand crooked noses?
I perceive eyes spinning in their orbits attempt to settle into poses.
There they stand tattooed with wrinkles, crowned with antlers
Whose numbers and girth reflect their power immortal.
These sleepers old, these sleepers new, born aloft to be
Soaked in dew. Hanging on for dear life, some prefer to wrap
Their roots around another’s, clinging with the might of Titans,
Hanging on as if the Earth herself was the fairest of lovers.
Twisted torsos of headed sleepers weep over long forgotten lore.
If only they could keep their memory safe, if only they were given
The opportunity to recite their wisdoms before they are slain,
Laid down the woodsman. The crown of the forest is fallen,
Will man in his folly never cease is the rape of his Mother?
What charm he shows in his care for the fairest of lovers.
poem by David Lacey
Added by Poetry Lover
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