They Can'T Find Home
an’t find home
trees trunked as pillars
a cathedral gallery
edges my road
through french farmland
waking in mists of spring
brown arched buttresses push green
into the face of god
a somber holiness escapes,
the sound echoed
among foliage floating above
I sit to rest
and there silently arise
between rough bark
men, grey as leaf mold
approach to offer
their deaths carried gingerly
in cupped hands
taste this, our tales of mortar shelled
star burst murder
on nights yellow with gas
lungs choking closed
blown into eternity
by mined field’s crop of demise or
whining whistle of rifle spew entering
warm sacred bodies oozing life their beauty,
sweet youth gone to earth
beneath grasses where they should be
lover’s heat now
all, wander still
those blood soaked fields mud,
noise and death
laid down
to pave a path
for old men dreaming glory.
Copyright © Patricia Cresswell | Year Posted 2017
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