Sixth Wreath
Against revenge? No. Just a mass of flowers.
While destinies lie mapped in spiral ways’
unfathomable mazes, and our hours
of waiting for true justice stretch to days,
centuries turn to aeons, and more pain,
cruelty, cunning, cowardice, outweigh praise,
and being is unrealised, hope vain,
history a legend without a moral,
dull habit, our becoming, endless drain
of expectation, lit up by ephemeral
delicate perfumed glimpses flowers bring –
these papery rubies strewn on beds of emerald
in pliable quilts of yet another spring
reveal no answer. But they sing. They sing.
Richard Burns
