SurVision Magazine
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An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Four
RACHEL BURNS
Behind the Scenes at the Museum
Nobody saw him peel off the layers
to the skeleton beneath.
Nobody saw the skin shed
like a coat to the floor.
And the road signs
pointing the wrong way.
The fruit bowls with their shiny plastic fruit –
the skeleton stood like the grim reaper
over the new-born. Eighty tall red vases
appeared. Seventy-nine
made cheaply in a factory in China
one hand painted in England
with 18-carat gold.
Breeding Lilacs
I dream of lilacs, sprouting roots in dead land
as I nurse you in the palm of my hand
singing you a lullaby, until you drift
into fitful sleep like a boat lost at sea
the ebbing of the tide carries you
across continents to a distant land,
walk with me, into the mortuaries
where children sleep like angels on marble slabs
the air is thick with body bags and the stench
of death, shadows are cast on the living
mothers weep, enough to fill an ocean.
Listen, you can hear the lilacs breeding
sprouting roots in red desert sand
sucking the life blood from the land.
The White Crow
I saw you walking across the fields
It was drizzling that day, wet rain,
rain clinging to everything, your
clothes, the heather, the grass, the trees.
It saturated the body of a dead child
you carried over your shoulder.
I feared for you that day,
I worried about your burden
that it was heavy for you.
It was getting dark and your
dog trailed behind. I felt cold
with fear but I kept
watching. Did you see me?
I was the white crow
circling the sky overhead
watching you carrying
the body of a dead child
watching until you were out of sight
until the day turned to night.
I was the white crow
the body you carried
that awful burden
a dead child with my name tag on.
to the skeleton beneath.
Nobody saw the skin shed
like a coat to the floor.
And the road signs
pointing the wrong way.
The fruit bowls with their shiny plastic fruit –
the skeleton stood like the grim reaper
over the new-born. Eighty tall red vases
appeared. Seventy-nine
made cheaply in a factory in China
one hand painted in England
with 18-carat gold.
Breeding Lilacs
I dream of lilacs, sprouting roots in dead land
as I nurse you in the palm of my hand
singing you a lullaby, until you drift
into fitful sleep like a boat lost at sea
the ebbing of the tide carries you
across continents to a distant land,
walk with me, into the mortuaries
where children sleep like angels on marble slabs
the air is thick with body bags and the stench
of death, shadows are cast on the living
mothers weep, enough to fill an ocean.
Listen, you can hear the lilacs breeding
sprouting roots in red desert sand
sucking the life blood from the land.
The White Crow
I saw you walking across the fields
It was drizzling that day, wet rain,
rain clinging to everything, your
clothes, the heather, the grass, the trees.
It saturated the body of a dead child
you carried over your shoulder.
I feared for you that day,
I worried about your burden
that it was heavy for you.
It was getting dark and your
dog trailed behind. I felt cold
with fear but I kept
watching. Did you see me?
I was the white crow
circling the sky overhead
watching you carrying
the body of a dead child
watching until you were out of sight
until the day turned to night.
I was the white crow
the body you carried
that awful burden
a dead child with my name tag on.
Rachel Burns is from Co. Durham in England. She has poetry published recently in Marble Poetry, Fenland Reed, Head Stuff, Lonesome October and The Herald Newspaper.
