by | Jun 18, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

Night on the cold plain,
invisible sands lift,
peripheral shadows stir,

space between light and dark
shrouding secrets;
old trades draped grey.

Here too poppies fall,
petals blown on broken ground
seeds scattered on stone

and this bright bloom,
newly cropped,
leaves pale remains

fresh lines cut;
the old sickle wind
sharp as yesterday.


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *