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Three poems by Stephen Milne
First volume of poems, Moorings, due this year
Stephen Milne
Bouzincourt
- The woods are full of the sound of birds
- and the doors of every village shuttered to the sun.
- In lingering fields of wheat, white crosses burn:
- the names of all our dead are silent words.
- Trees once cracked and broken bloom again.
- Poppies are accents of accidental blood.
- Each tomb has an epitaph: unknown, beloved,
- regretted. Marks of valour are their own sign.
- On every martyred lane a rumour grows.
- Death — whose brothers, uncles, husbands, friends
- have left their agony amongst the green —
- has sown itself a resurrection from the soil.
- Not once each year, but every day they sing,
- the nightingales of Bouzincourt, Ancre and La Boiselle.
The Somme, France 2012
Stealing Gooseberries
- Over the red wall in the dust the low drills
- drew us to their strung wires, electric with light.
- The first wire spooked us like bird shadows,
- lifted as easily as crumbling roots.
- Then, without thought, that sweet-sour bitterness
- of the green forbidden fruit, its fuzzy
- roundness marble-hard, a taste of breaking waves
- emerald-white under creaking, ancient trees.
- Our tongues tied, tangled with summer seed,
- we ate among the thousand silver leaves
- that fluttered in the solar darkness like flares.
- Aldebaran brought with it frost, our first taste
- of winter’s hoary ice, flooding from our senses
- the age-old drama of guilt and innocence.
Poacher
- Wheat crackles under the beams of his arc-lights,
- their great eyes blind to the presence of strangers.
- From the edge of an old car, he hunts by stealth,
- reaches through darkness for each small death,
- gropes under starlight for the taut limbs of the hare.
- My arrival disturbs him, sends him back
- into the blindness of fear and betrayal,
- of wings whirring in the panic of flight.
- He knows, with the practice of years, how blood
- gives off its own unconscious sound and scent.
- Alone with the morning, he counts his catch,
- the dripping fields twitching into life.
- He admits, if you ask him, that tradition is wrong.
- Dawn’s carcass hangs in his shed,
- its sudden trophies half-lit and bled.
Stephen Milne lives and works in Lincolnshire in the United Kingdom. He has been previously published in a number of small magazines and journals and is married with six children. He is planning to release his first volume of poems, entitled Moorings, later this year.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Three poems by Stephen Milne
First volume of poems, Moorings, due this year
Three poems by Stephen Milne
First volume of poems, Moorings, due this year
Stephen Milne
Bouzincourt
- The woods are full of the sound of birds
- and the doors of every village shuttered to the sun.
- In lingering fields of wheat, white crosses burn:
- the names of all our dead are silent words.
- Trees once cracked and broken bloom again.
- Poppies are accents of accidental blood.
- Each tomb has an epitaph: unknown, beloved,
- regretted. Marks of valour are their own sign.
- On every martyred lane a rumour grows.
- Death — whose brothers, uncles, husbands, friends
- have left their agony amongst the green —
- has sown itself a resurrection from the soil.
- Not once each year, but every day they sing,
- the nightingales of Bouzincourt, Ancre and La Boiselle.
The Somme, France 2012
Stealing Gooseberries
- Over the red wall in the dust the low drills
- drew us to their strung wires, electric with light.
- The first wire spooked us like bird shadows,
- lifted as easily as crumbling roots.
- Then, without thought, that sweet-sour bitterness
- of the green forbidden fruit, its fuzzy
- roundness marble-hard, a taste of breaking waves
- emerald-white under creaking, ancient trees.
- Our tongues tied, tangled with summer seed,
- we ate among the thousand silver leaves
- that fluttered in the solar darkness like flares.
- Aldebaran brought with it frost, our first taste
- of winter’s hoary ice, flooding from our senses
- the age-old drama of guilt and innocence.
Poacher
- Wheat crackles under the beams of his arc-lights,
- their great eyes blind to the presence of strangers.
- From the edge of an old car, he hunts by stealth,
- reaches through darkness for each small death,
- gropes under starlight for the taut limbs of the hare.
- My arrival disturbs him, sends him back
- into the blindness of fear and betrayal,
- of wings whirring in the panic of flight.
- He knows, with the practice of years, how blood
- gives off its own unconscious sound and scent.
- Alone with the morning, he counts his catch,
- the dripping fields twitching into life.
- He admits, if you ask him, that tradition is wrong.
- Dawn’s carcass hangs in his shed,
- its sudden trophies half-lit and bled.
Stephen Milne lives and works in Lincolnshire in the United Kingdom. He has been previously published in a number of small magazines and journals and is married with six children. He is planning to release his first volume of poems, entitled Moorings, later this year.
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