Topic: Cast in cold Iron. Helena Donovan 2009.
I wrote this while sipping tea one day with my bro. There was an old cast Iron Bench outside the window. I collated my own thoughts to what i thought was the life of the bench.
Cast In Cold Iron.
Forged by heat, a cast iron seat
Your elegance looks out of place
What secrets you hold, bustled times to unfold
Sharing times now! No choices, But shade.
You look sumptuous, ordained, scroll symbols arranged
A symphony of fleur- de -lis
Memorial to one? One who sat in the sun?
Watching croquet, Sipping cool lemonade.
A small plastic bag, blown in on the wind
Has settled attached neath your frame
Collects slowly dripped rain, Weak sun infused rays
Casting prisms, to colour our day
An old rusty chain, has you shackled in place
Rusty lock that insults your finesse
I admire your grace, were both out of place
In this hustle called modern age
The artistic hands that once drew your plan
Would they scream? And rage at your fate
Your carbon in life, with graphite I write
A cupola, fierce burning pains.
One day I’ll return, sit with you in the sun
Spanning bridges, like alloys allied
Divides in between, death so obscene
Our sorrows! We cast in cold iron.
Old Doll.
Kudos
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