John Thorkild Ellison Poems

The crow cries out in anger
As the senile branches scrape the sky
And past the trees a stranger
Picks his way through the dead land.
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Never speak the word, give love a name
And lose her friendship. Move in rings
Around each other, never close,
And talk of this and that, and laugh at trivial things.
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Small creatures shiver in their lairs
While the full moon is strangled by the tree
Whose branches wrestle with the wind,
Scraping, groaning ceaselessly.
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A Day of days! Great cloud in a naked heaven!
Sing loud, glad Earth, a song of triumph!
Under the soil a pale shoot quickens,
A living root dispels December,
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Dark, crippled Rose
Whose blighted spring
Which no-one chose
Caused suffering
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I lie awake,
While the wind howls in the gables
And mice creep furtively among the rafters.
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Love's a poor shelter, whatever you say,
The cover flaps in the wind,
rain gets in the ceiling,
Yet here we come to kindle
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'Idleness is the Enemy of the Soul'
Said St. Benedict.
He was a godly man.
A hard day's graft makes a good disciple!
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I know there's no easy answer
But time will tell
Though you're locked in a hopeless sorrow
And private hell,
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