contemporary poetry

and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
beneath the warrior's helm
all those treasures that lie
god
the stars fell from heaven
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
my son is dead and i am going blind
i cannot always feel his greatness
she might have known it in the earlier spring
which i wish to remark
a flying word from here and there
do i like it