Blood Tides

Killing fields are shaken from boots. Old men tremble in the chill library of their minds. The war over the sea and the terror beneath every creaking sky are the same as ever. The sunflowers turn this way and that, for the sun is a nomad caught in a hamster wheel of space. Most people eat in a home, that will never be their own. Blood drizzles inside drywalls where none see it. O fox, where do you sleep? A mild winter turns to rivers of mud. The dead children have grown large, larger than the living, they dwell in shelters and tunnels, emerge only to throw stones at the ramparts of those that only whisper their rage.