Immanence
A rouged sky paints a clown's face,
on a dawn rising moon.
The open earth, that not closed in
by brooding trees,
but is as spread-out acres,
where the hush and harken
darken eyes and ears,
to surmise with a blind expectancy,
Yonder fields of tall, unhooded grass,
rattle their spines and tremble,
before an unseen avalanche of doubts.
Stiff hedgerows crouch
over darkly webbed roots,
fears huddle under thin skins,
a subdued ground waits to be found.
It comes,
the storm inside the stillness
blooms, still unseen
its tumult as yet a far stretch.
All the cup-shaped,
all the cupped and hollowed,
will be gagged and drowned,
by a plunging sky --- one not yet nigh.
Too late,
a squirrel barks a warning.
A teacup of terror has been spilled,
unbowed heads unwillingly turn,
wondering -
wherefore, to where?
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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