Monday, 14 May 2012

Sickle Stickle

In solitude by the tearing force,
Sheltered beneath the crag;
Barrelling down the valley
An excruciating gale deafens
From heart, soul, and mind.

I cry not, and care not,
Sheep, hiding all they possess
In secrecy and fear,
Something from me.

Upon mossy rocks,
Over damp boggy fells;
The trickle of stones
Down from the pike,
Unseen desperation.

I cannot see the lost lamb,
Bleating by a beck;
Or smell the sodden rotting flesh,
Ewe, lying dead
As the tarn water dissolves
What meat there was

Taking all over the tearing force,
Pushed on, faster, and faster
By the masterful, unforgiving wind;
Spreading all: settling dust,
Leaving nothing that was,
In silence.

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