Haruspex – a poem by Tuur Verheyde


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 

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.

Website: https://www.tuurverheyde.com

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