Post Trauma
The puffing, dusted, lane forgotten
we veer through the green barley:
knee high, trying to cut, parting
in rasping cough against our boots.
The map does not mark this place
as more than a battle-site, with context
in the contour lines, for those that wish
to see. You want a pommel or a bullet
to justify the weary drudge of the incline
towards the summit's stone barrow
of some dead king: long robbed of fear.
No comments:
Post a Comment