Death Blows a Hollow Horn
On a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider's cold 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 and through 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.
Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014
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