Thin-armed sentinels

(24th February)

Thin-armed sentinels, guardians, 

there's something human about the look of you, 

or sense of you, 

and you're tickling the corners of my mind, 

some gift from the muses that's only half-formed. 

What are you saying to me? 

You stand there, pose, like a living statue, 

let the wind sway you 

like you're utterly passive - 

and sentinels, guardians, they're servants of a ruler, right? - 

and you're passive to the world 

and you let storms bring you down, 

and yet you stand with such deliberation, 

your poses expressive like rhyme 

yet I don't quite know what's being expressed. 

You're so clear and stark against the air 

and you form a teasing curtain 

before the things you block. 

(new stanza)

Silent, still and silent, 

you are not clothed with leaves the wind can rustle. 

Serene? Impassive? Or angered by a world 

that does not listen? 

Was the silence a curse or a choice? 

I cannot say. 

And nor do you say. And nor <I> will <I> you say, 

unless there is a radical world event. 

But until then you wait, 

(new stanza)

Speaking without language, 


Thin-armed, sentinels? guardians?...

The End

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