Lies the ravished pride of a little town
The stepchild of time and non-ticking clocks,
Once the leaf-fringed streets
Now the haunts of broken boughs;
Church steeple plummeted- muffled ringing bell
The pews are empty, the pious mourned.
Aeroplanes in the lowing, clouded sky came
Bombs haunted like silver ghosts,
Citizens running, screaming, no longer young
Praying hands wrought with fear;
Bridge of copper palette- cold and drowned
Cold pastoral, desolate town.
The secrets remain, though dead in the buried
Wind sweeps around corners, sweeps around streets,
Cold is the air, cold are the trees
Whitening hedges, crumpling snow;
Darting shadows, ice over the river field
And the little town forever will silent be.
Copyright © 08/30/2016 lance sheridan®