These barren fields,
wolf-grey coats of bark and
dust, coarse lines bleeding
trails, idle in stillness,
parsed, perched,
widows of breath,
brittle as ash in wind
sit slack-jawed, cold,
hinterlands of impervious past.

Fields once green with
life, sealed to drought,
shielded by lushness,
beauty, palpable energy,
footprints, hoof prints,
sun-soaked stems and
petals under dalliances of
bliss, impenetrable to
heaven’s prevailing winds

at long last burn – shimmers
of light, heat, soft sparks
glinting at night, radiate in
glory as hunters’ souls fall
dim. These barren fields,
once fortresses, iron trestles,
mastheads of solitude, now lay
bare, soiled by sin, awash in
blood splintered from their roots.

 

Also published at ALTARWORK and The Bees Are Dead.