The Scions Of Spring Poem by George Murdock

The iron gates lay broken,
The fire bricks scattered and pitched
Where once the setting’s fierce roar
now silence.
Once while the chimneys billowed the stench and smoke of slaughter.
In the background the sounds of trains and shouting men.
Fierce dogs strained at tethers from urine stained alcoves.
While jack boots thudded on brick paved causeways,
behind the panic of bare feet and ragged breath,
the rutting continued.
like salmon swimming up the sweet stream, the rutting went on,
behind shipping crates, in mountains of excelsior, and beneath the points
of fixed bayonets, in straw heaps of barns and sheds.
Years after the grates lay frozen and the stench of the dead night
gave way to the lilt of peach blossoms, we lay on a plaid blanket together,
staring into each other’s eyes, conjuring the scions of spring,
caught in the gyre of the helix.