An Elegy For England

 

Bone poised on a stone scarp tilted like an accusation

to the sky,

he sees first the seismic cracks, then Europe drift away.

 

Slowly he lifts a wing to peck and pull at a single feather,

holds it there

then watches it drop spinning down into the chosen abyss.

 

Across the layers of sod and turf and millstone grit,

lambent ghosts drift,

eyeless, tongue-torn, groaning in languages unknown.

 

He has been here before. He has heard the screams,

seen black sails

drift beyond the burning sunset. Flesh scents on the wind.

 

 

(Written 24/06/16 for 3:AM Magazine.)

 

 

 

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