Haruspex See A robed man Sitting on a ragged Throne, wondering Why the Whispering World Won’t start bleating before He’s sat down to rest. He rises to follow The interminable hum Like he follows his forbearers And their stringent sagecraft Into foretold uncertainties. The sound leads him towards A mournful glade where He kneels down to grope The blistered ground. Where the dirt is torn He reaches down to run His hand along the gut. It reads like braille, Like a palimpsest pressed Deep into the heaving soil. It says little at first, knowing His creed, its bloodshed not Forgotten by the earth. Finally sensing some flocks Might need a guide and This one might not stray, The dirt spells out ‘Flood.’ He runs back to his sanctuary To consult the written and The dead through rites Left for him to keep and Pass down; well-worn ways Strain to survive these rapidly Transforming times. The days Snigger at whatever vainly Resists the relentless turning. He wanders out to where He can see the skies only To hear the tides growling At the base of his hill, Enclosing. He wonders how Much time is left to turn His temple into an ark.
Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-four year old Belgian poet. His work endeavours to capture the weirdness of the 21st century; its globalised art, culture, politics and problems. Tuur’s poetry seeks to further cultural, spiritual, political and emotional connectivity on an international level. His work is personal and outward looking.