Nuclear Heritage

High wings over the fox ferns
from meres of the morning star
in a singing brown man's dawn,
gods of six golden suns
quest the giant fish catcher
by charcoal cross and thorn.

The pitted longfolded bones
torn from the last black pony,
dear follower of his destiny,
crumble on rainwashed stones
with pinions of steel angels
and iron of dead history.

Citadel and cold willow,
shuddered from blackened hills,
are dust to the sad seabirds:
the drawn hand on the longbow,
the full arm of the thatcher,
are twisted by dying herds.

There will be no more magic
by boar's head and yellow fire,
by hunting net and cauldron:
painful his round, wide eyes
under his mother's star;
shining, his spider children.

by Eric Ratcliffe

Comments (1)

Im a fan of this one