Beside the fields of rye and flax
there is a road that leads to birches,
pocked with dark puddles and tank tracks,
above which no white dove perches.
Green men pray to another Christ,
a Fulcrum falling overhead,
a saviour or a poltergeist,
the sun behind it, fierce and red.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: war