Iron hard this womb of winter earth,
Fusion of rock, frost and stones,
And fallen heroes broken bones,
Held within an ossuary of soil,
Over which the tired sun still toils,
Until Springs verdant rebirth,
For no rasping plough shall turn,
Upon the crests of crusted sod,
Unearthing from the dark depths,
Fragile leaflets from the loam,
Which seek the sun as souls salvation,
Long as winter grasps its roots,
So a silence settles upon the day,
Soft as silken sleet and salting hail.
No comments:
Post a Comment