A week of poems: Emma Neale’s “‘So Sang a Little Clod of Clay'”

 

 

So Sang a Little Clod of Clay’

William Blake

 

When it hurts, but she doesn’t say;

when it dulls, but he still gives praise.

 

When she bites, but he refuses rage

and he walks free, yet she stays.

 

When they wait through blunt dismay

although they ache as the children play

 

this is tread and bootgrind

this is hope’s hard labour

this is the heart’s ripe savour

this is the sting of healing

this is the rope of time —

 

and love is dust

ignited

in fleet, golden murmuration.

 

©Emma Neale

 

 

 

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