Cold Austere Poem by Gagan Ahuja

Black mettle be the brine of
cold and austere, measure of the pallor
when two worlds are near
sodden english shores of our ire
an inscription on the cenotaph of beware
what of whatever be the dare
to reach the old mill is very rare
leaves are cold to the cry I hear
the english of black mettle has died somewhere
dew of the pastures is upon
the pall we shall lift herefrom
grief will try another story
when the outbreak of liberty
be buried the cross of don