Mundane Humane

Watch down the meadows here, of half a sight of 

slaughter, and stick down these rows furled lazy 

with the grass of fair days and stilted with colours 

of May. And see no horns, rooted like the children's 

graves, all turned a pallid colour. And bathe now in 

the sun of stilted memories gone to wind.

For no heads turn as sirens on the clock here, filled with 

madness of spinning rocks on the hour. Nor any men 

dressed as men without eyes, should we skinned heads 

have to suckle death from their guns. No: now these Trees 

had hanged the other way, turning from sights of sorted 

mass into waking graves, and to wash in perfumes hazy 

as the night sky, and rotten as anaemic lungs.

But watch down the meadows now, through fields of huts 

and silence‒ for the pasture of death looks nothing like

violence. Where, upon a ravaged place, a Lark lands as

an infant would, and tenderly drifts, faint into innocent 

shawls. But for what cause do these blind bullet heads sink

lower than flesh? and when the Sun next rises, all shall be

put to rest.