I Rambled Across a Field

 

I rambled across a field on a ruined estate,

A thoroughly agreeable pastime of late,

And to my surprise stumbled on a marble head,

The muddied countenance of a poet long dead.

His face was disfigured, nose lopped off,

Treatment more appropriate for a Romanov.

Seeing I was alone, I tucked him under my arm

And hurried home past sheep, a derelict barn.

In my study, revived by something strong,

I looked up his name, found he’d been wronged,

By people with no patience for a naughty freak,

Suddenly sober but too blue to speak,

     I lifted his head high as if he were my brother

     And placed him on a shelf with all the others.