Briar Crest

I.

O Innocent:

a crown of thorns

upon her head.

Blood red roses

at her breast,

and sash of embroidered

trumpet call:

the last moon

in virgin time and

mountain’s mirror,

the moment of sweet

sheaves brought near.

II.

Now, at Briar

I held a rose:

a sweet thing,

only one thorn.

Order of bravery

and medal

of the knight;

by poppy field, uncounted,

to live or die

in honorable service,

a throne apart.

Strong helmet

of salvation near,

militia walking

three abreast;

the battalion of

a silver stride,

and trident buried.

III.

Captured, the song bird

flew and tried the silver door.

Unruffled, muted color

and untrysted,

the even adagio, a dance upon

an unmarked floor.

Still, the child

in cradle lay;

each breath,

the dying moment

of a cloud.

IV.

Rose

among queens

lay in tears,

arms outstretched.

Oh—how thy

moment ended:

a brittle floor,

crashed six feet down

and chandelier,

a falling arrow.

The archer of

innumerable aim,

each bowstring tended,

the moment of

untimely glow,

a teacher of

the mercy’s aria,

now heroine smarting

in the silence.

V.

In gentle moon

or stately sun,

thine kingdom

vast and bowed;

bejeweled and

valued at

twice England’s.

One crown of diamonds,

dress, in velvet,

emerald fair—

and trumpeters

for better ended call:

This moment, two daughters,

majestic and foreboding.

VI.

Pale visage,

the cloud’s usurped brow

on field of sun-drenched

grape vine crushed;

a hush of birdsong

for the rifle’s tide,

and pheasant,

rising to roost.

The floorboards creaked

and this was how

the baby, tended, grew.

VII.

A journey’s breadth

and back;

the sparring couple,

a sword’s bed.

The quiet lilac night,

the rippling seaboard schooner;

and one knightly gesture,

a token’s witness.

My smile drew thee,

nigh or cold,

like one white rose.

The chilled armor

covered thee

with truth’s last recount:

the riveting Rose

our final christening vows.

VIII.

Under the cast of moon,

at last, a home built

by sturdy beams

and cherished hearth.

Two by two

we waltzed to one last night,

before the turning,

before the final call

and knightly lune:

a trumpet to

our coronation.

The stately paint,

and beckoning smile,

was suddenly

a frame too heavy-laden,

for the journey way a mile—

and soft-spoken moments

when I saw

your kiss vanish

behind the arbor

became a cold grave.

IX.

The in and out of time,

the forehead of the fathers,

furrowed,

a dusty book bin

losing moments

to my touch.

Old Lassie,

dog of boyhood moment,

and furthering gaze of your

handsome jest to sword gilt

and stately moment poised. 

X.

The quiet twilight

stole your mail,

and unshod,

your peace disturbed,

from wanton crest.

The hill country

laid down

its arms,

and minstrels

now stood

in sudden malady,

a plate of victuals

not their own.

A quiet innocence,

and small dove-light tunic,

from a moment waylaid

in the mountains of the sun.

XI.

I found her

in a woodland meadow,

crafting a piper’s tune,

the village brushed and eyes apart,

we, Sir,

beleaguered and bled

injustice.

He was tall without a hunch,

the castle on the moor,

echoed in glass,

the cottage thatch and thrush,

a recall

to Notre Dame’s vast naves.

In this meadow,

the goldenrod,

crackling underfoot,

the sky a stormy

chase of thunder…

She stands,

two immigrants

in sorrow at the task

of Scotland, shapely

in a coat of arms.

Emily Isaacson