Pots of Rosemary and Rye
The house lay in funny silence, in trickling, sticking thick suspense
The kind that swept its great immense around Lucy’s spinning head
Still lives of an ordinary pot of violet rosemary
There hung directly contrary, on the wall, of Lucy’s bed
“So quite strange, these rosemary sticks spellbind me like those magic tricks
And old tales of River Styx, as well”, Lucy faintly said
For hours long she’d been screaming to beats of the ever-seeming
Burning blood through veins upstreaming that now lay humbly asleep
Then at last her voice had drowned in the sound of a hoarse violin
That smoothened the popping veins’ skin – “I let instead these stings weep”
Lucy listened until the quartet put their bows down above, to sweat
And smoke perhaps a cigarette – “come again, sounds, do not sleep”
Lucy found herself then waiting for the song, her mind creating
New songs and melodies, stating “silence shan’t me overthrow”
That is when she caught in her eye the pictures of a dusking sky
Behind the pots of herbs and rye, forgetting soon the weeping bow
“So quite, so very strange, I say; what are these things in pots of clay?
Why do they, in their disarray, come, greet me and say hello?”
It would be many hours yet ‘fore she’d open her mouth and let
Another word come out of it without her even trying
Lucy’s eyes settled for a while and let herself slowly beguile
Her time in paintings worth her while, the ones from down her wall spying
“Anger will come again, it’s nigh, but to calm I can fix my eye
On pots of rosemary and rye, or listen for bows crying”.
The kind that swept its great immense around Lucy’s spinning head
Still lives of an ordinary pot of violet rosemary
There hung directly contrary, on the wall, of Lucy’s bed
“So quite strange, these rosemary sticks spellbind me like those magic tricks
And old tales of River Styx, as well”, Lucy faintly said
For hours long she’d been screaming to beats of the ever-seeming
Burning blood through veins upstreaming that now lay humbly asleep
Then at last her voice had drowned in the sound of a hoarse violin
That smoothened the popping veins’ skin – “I let instead these stings weep”
Lucy listened until the quartet put their bows down above, to sweat
And smoke perhaps a cigarette – “come again, sounds, do not sleep”
Lucy found herself then waiting for the song, her mind creating
New songs and melodies, stating “silence shan’t me overthrow”
That is when she caught in her eye the pictures of a dusking sky
Behind the pots of herbs and rye, forgetting soon the weeping bow
“So quite, so very strange, I say; what are these things in pots of clay?
Why do they, in their disarray, come, greet me and say hello?”
It would be many hours yet ‘fore she’d open her mouth and let
Another word come out of it without her even trying
Lucy’s eyes settled for a while and let herself slowly beguile
Her time in paintings worth her while, the ones from down her wall spying
“Anger will come again, it’s nigh, but to calm I can fix my eye
On pots of rosemary and rye, or listen for bows crying”.