It was a summer’s day
in 1817.
I was lying in a field
with Schubert in my heart.
Skylarks were flying above my soul
over the battlefields of bloody Europe;
love among the stench of war,
lust burning in the sweating grass.
That August dream,
I wanted my breath to die
in your swirling arms,
with the yellow butterflies
flitting in your dripping eyes.
I took some local wine
to soothe my startled nerves
and the lovely blood
leapt in the sun.
The future had swept me here
to sing of all the years advancing,
the awkward poems I never wrote
blowing
across the aching valley
for future birds
to peck at
in this graveyard of ambition
still
just outside of Tuebingen.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
