Scarecrow on a moor

Stalemated armies rest beneath the bog
With tattered banners;
Broadswords swung in a mire
Still ringing the anguish, langets dripping with death

From a battle,
Glowering tartan colors, a last taunt.
They did not surrender

They did not budge, protected a homeland,
A doorstep
With beheaded bilberry, grouse and hare,

And the carrion flight warned to keep away
From a landscape
By a hasted scarecrow,

Stark, tattered by a cold wind from a
North Sea blow,
Driven by ghosts of Viking ships

Across the moors
Pocked by moss and rabbit track; the weltering mist
Brings it to its knees.

Time nurses a rage at the white edge
Called a hell,
Subdued unruly warriors

Lack a siege,
Blurting taunts with forked tongues
Down a grisly, wet mired death;

Ambushed black birds worse,
Dangling on a wired fence
Sheaved skulls mournfully cawing their guilt;
Trophies for a time:

All throned in the thick of a muskeg,
Crumbled to a demise;
Bones bent homeward, brimful of repent.

Copyright © 05/25/18 lance sheridan®

Scarecrow on a moor

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