It is the burning sky;
that oh, so high divide
that drives us apart,
sends us seeking clarity.
Stars blacked out
by billow freedom veil;
under a smudge sun,
ravens flock like murders.
Run like a hunted stag
through the undergrowth.
Dive from the heights
of the mountains’ cornice.
Never been much
for concrete
and right angles;
they deceive the eye
and the mind soon follows.
All the world smells like a tire fire;
acrid and tearful,
our vision would once pass the big hill,
but now lays down
and plays dead in the valley,
seeking for the sleep to come over.
Never resurrect her;
den mother,
sleeping warrior.
Under the cover of the smoke,
burnt black and empty.
Move to the sounds
of the clean run
river water;
there will be no celebrations;
but for the savage mind.
Laughter of the lost ones,
playing in the ashes.
All done and over
is their work,
for the desolation
comes down hard
on the land,
on the river Otter;
until the rain comes
and they run
for their sanctuaries.
All the sky burns
and the world
will recover,
but the people,
they will not,
for their vision
sees only death.
Fear drives their feet
and their hands
only seek to feed their mouths,
but there’s no food here,
only smoke
and dreams of the world to come.
From the ashes
and the water
and the sky,
when the stars return.
HG – 2017
