Sweet sounding night
The troubler of conscience, swept all at once
my soul out into the stars, etheric it was
and so pure;

mud-caked shoes squealed like pigs caught in an iron grip
and there seemed no passing wind
freeze and ice-borne carrier of blackberries
fought on a battlefield for hope and home and right,
what sense was there now
in the half-erect timbers of worm

terrified we were
and scattered a blizzard of things
but the round domed shapes drew near still,
and then passes a word, for wild
and pain and joy
entwined it was known and over suddenly
just indents where grass lay crushed by weight and anger and storm.


© Michael Humphreys, 2006 (all rights reserved)