Wild Geese Across The Moon

REEDS, snake-like, coiled in the mist
Where the low fog drives:
The muddy cough of the stream that strives
To free its throat from the clot of reed,
As they fight it out the water and the weed--
While the fog, above, takes turn and twist:
Men, these are your lives!

Wild Geese across the moon:
As some hand that unrolls
And scratches black names upon blood-red scrolls;
So seem these shadows, dipping, dying,
Black shapes on the red moon, screaming, flying,
Till the fog blots out, or late or soon:
Men, these are your souls!

by Muriel Stuart

Comments (1)

Holy Smoke- -she writes like a dream. Look at those images- best word selection ever. She is a lover of words and uses all their flavors and scents and ability to evoke emotion. Sang, she is good. 10