The Fieldstone Review

Down Mines of Dreams

by Nigel Ford

Down mines of dreams, as righteous owls seek flight
Wise in copses, wend and wheel claws won
Seek out their right, eyes glower bright
Floodlit prey, scurried lives now done.
While Cinnamon turns pale Bottom to the sun.
Down vines of dreams where boatmen cull the oars
Of when and want and hurried scum
Hunt for friends and foes among the mores
Of do that and this and never come
Although through want and wait, the day is done.
Stalk the woods of yesteryear
Smudged with effort, tiny ructions
And here flying lopes arrives the trundled heather
Curious at these miniscule debouches
Its time will come again and always bear
Away the feeble bundles of life’s fear.
Above the ruins strive, develop carbide blues
Whistle to the skies of care and woe
When discharge down the medication of the boos
Mooted nature shits her dough
Smothers foreign animals with strife
Doomed to ever struggle for another life.
Time was, such condiments were not
Stocking hips ashine, heels whirl against the sky
Hair cream broils in the moonlit cot
Struggle in the tiny room, endearments fly
Inside the space where questions die.
It is a good master followed
Across torched fields of words and glistening worm
As the dead disciple searching for a life
Such fallen empty corpse, a mind in fallow
Turns around to suck the juice of empty pome
Hunting for a terminal and bloody strife.
Hails the hail bouncing off a head
Chews raw kale that scours the stomach
Stoops and crouched in nettles of the bed
Searches vain for muddy jewels instead
To stud the message flung wild to the monarch
That benign, slams the door on what was said.
As long-eared wise sit about their council
Pouts of corn grain twist shucks of travel
Looked upon by seedy seats and mellowed ill
Of know-not how or when to ravel
Thrashed by ownership hard bound
Cries and churns of makeshift marvel
At the accidental chorus of bright sound
Beaten black by sweat and charred as evil.
Buds, sods, trunks and gushes
The roars of men and women’s flushes
Pour doom over hill down rushes
Crimson filament of dying day
Whittled stems and cracked trunks sway
In the soaring buds of May.
Such burst upon and round the senses
Tickle sneezing lust and disarray
On bracken harvest scooped from fences
While the tenses lost search for Monterey
Beneath the glisten pals of long gone benches
Spitted forth from begin.