The Old Gods

The old gods spoke
through the crows in the trees,
the tongue of the flame,
the wind that stirred the ashes,

but I do not know the words
the vireo sings
in the mountain ash
above the raspberry patch.

In the evening stillness
the swallows make easy work
of souls on the wing.

In darkness, I see a face
with empty eyes
and teeth like little suns.

Oh to feel pain bloom
out of me like red roses,
like the blood of the saints.


Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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