aftermath

the birds do not come here

I can see
as far as the distant horizon
and there are none

only the stark angularities
of a char-blackened
fallen army
in the disarray of aftermath

there are hundreds
of these wooden soldiers
stripped bare
hollowed out
and half fallen

the lingering stench of defeat
remains heavy in the air

a sense of futility

an occasional instant of colour
green or blue
halfway up a trunk
suggests that time
and nature
may again prevail
but there is not enough green
in this despoiled theatre
to fill an upturned bole
with one liquid ounce
of hope

nor enough to entice
a single bird
to sing


© Frank Prem, 2003

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4 thoughts on “aftermath

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