Nettled, I am. The pikemen of the field
were battle-squared and skirmished
with my hand. Now, as sots,
they whirl in
minor breezes and sharpen up
attack; eyeless
before the enemy. So
charged with war they attract spite
from the raging skin.
Nature contains such thuggery.
Sibilance as the air is flailed.
The hairshirt rabble will take territories
in sidings and the car springs shall
burn slowly. Allotments fall,
gain emperors-
little imperialists which sway
until scythed, easily.
They stay underground and
weld weapons for another season.
Quivering they will again process
in sunlight, raised up by
time on turf to claim their tithes
on my limbs and the light on the ground.
Usual stuff, please. Haven't written anything for a couple of months, now.
dozingdog
