The River
The River
The river that crosses the high plain like
an artery has only muddy water since it
didn´t rain in the summer.
Wild horses and donkeys come here to
drink, but often they look up and scan
the horizon weary of man and his dogs.
They served mankind for thousands of
years but with modern farming methods
they are no longer needed and have gone
feral. Free now, but freedom comes at
a prize, winter can be hard and often they
are hunted by sportsmen who kill for fun.
By the mountain there is a corral but only
the stupid and sick go there, the rest know
they are fattened up and used as sausage
meat, which the town uphill is famous for.
Every Octobers there is a gigantic party in
the hill town, beer is senselessly drunk and
tons of sausages eaten, the river, that crosses
the plain, becomes a putrid pool of human
waste till winter rain falls and clears it away.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
