The skeleton of a bull

I see,
like frost bitten tender growth,
blonde flashes,
throughout the grey and green,
of the spider limbed olive tree.
I see the skeleton of a bull in the sky,
as I’m beached to the sun,
encircled by a hideous chatter,
of insect and man.
The tongue is a bitter sound
from a hundred miles away.

I see the skeleton of a bull,
dance in the sky.
Its motion slowed to a dying dream.
No sleeping portrait on mountain view.
This god is dead.
And the new laws are set,
amongst the quiet chill of northern rooms,
as I am Immersed,
face up to the bone picked god,
in my water screened silence,
deaf to the talk of new junked rhymes,
and whispers of wasps amongst
the pomegranate trees.

Through the grey and green
of the spider limbed olive tree.
I see the skeleton of a bull.

Chris Hopkins, was born and raised in Neath South Wales, surrounded by machines and mountains, until he moved to Oxford in his early twenties. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for the NHS. Chris, who claims poetry has been "my ladder out of some dark places" has had poems published in Tuck Magazine, the online literary journal 1947, Transcendent Zero Press and Duane's PoeTree. Two of his early e-book pamphlets "Imagination is my Gun" and "Exit From a Moving Car" are available on Amazon. Read other articles by Chris.