Death Blows a Hollow Horn
In a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider’s last breath,
and on your grave sing the owl and raven
in the shadows of the valley of death.
Where no graven image rise from its bones,
only a cold wormwood wind on death row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where all that remains is what lies below.
But more, far more than this its sound to me
as if your soft voice my ear passing through -
and I trapped betwixt life and parody
sit this day communing with God and you.
Yet I fear life itself I shall not mourn
when Death comes to blow its wreathed hollow horn.
Written: July 1995
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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