Dead-Eye
Obliging black arms,
crooked fingers cut freezing
as they reach for winter
greys, blues of sky-
The trees are framed within
her eyes green as last
Summer's carpet.
Embroidery of native
life. Mulish winds sweep
lands...violence loved,
admired. A milled earth
is hushed to lull, charm.
Blue wings soft as May
fold into the afternoon chill.
A chalk sun throws gold
dust into a sketch;
a raped land is the captive
of oppression; false-
hoods, folly, darken
the tenets that twist and break
in the immoral wind.
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2020
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