POETRY: Frederick Broadie

Frederick Broadie [1913-2009] - philosopher, poet, musician and novelist:

Recall
A word lay dead upon a tree.
She plucked it off and gave it to me
Alive again with all her love
Still walking in that orange grove.

I heard it in the burning noon,
Passing on this final day,
Would stop and beg her pluck me too
From the hearse on which I lay,
But the driver and the horse
Were deafer than the dead of course.

The Knight of Faith
All I can do to mind
Is being told,
Two thousand years gone by
That till the dawn grows old
And Satan kind,
I, outside there in the cold
Beside the iron door
Must wait.
But why,
Or what by that command
I wait here for,
I cannot call to mind,
Yet this I know,
it was two thousand years ago,
Before my brown locks bowed before
The fall of faultless snow.