The Scythe(2)

Grief walks beside me like a shadow
Grief…the word that trailed through
The mud of the Somme, that visits every home
From the greatest to the least, and not once only

Death stole the honey from my hive
The comb filled up with darkness
Wax chambers nurtured maggots

I dream of a scythe, in the meadow of my life
Laying the poppy, the cornflower, the rose
The beautiful buttercup lower than the dust

I dream of a scarecrow droopy eyed,
Its stuffing, torn by the wind.

by Sheena Blackhall

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