The village

Smithy breathing his sweat on hot steel anvil
and hammer; shadowy procession
to a holy place, their portraits in the good
book. ….tumbling body out of a
liquor bottle, they make the sign of the cross;
she, a European girl, just or unjust
life, her parents carry sacks of the old city
from their time; mechanics in the
town square clock tick away lives deeds
words. ….mayor makes the new
creeds like unpaved roads, businesses
foreclose, untrodden and lonely;
ragged huts on the outskirts, she lives and
breathes the worn clothes, the
seed is spared in the garden. ….shallow
breathing in a hospital for the
poor, the sick, her ancestors; the plough blade
is rusted. ….cutters down the
wood, winter is near, vanes feel first snow;
dwellers on a breadline, cold
takes its share. ….the axes are dull and listless.

Copyright © 07/24/2015 fishbonepoetry®


This entry was posted in Poetry.

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