Saturday, 10 May 2008

War echos burnt the glittering butterfly

I might just be like the foraging squirrel
rustling its bed of brown leaves.
No answers,
no forgetting.

I am still crushed
by the exhibition of lonely eyes -
a dog was starved to death.

Cold crispy tongues of wind
brush my tingling skin,
a soft bite
of strawberry fills my mouth.

My stomach is ashen and swollen -
war echoes burnt the glittering butterfly.
A fence of indifference built
around its charred sides.

Questions -

Under the oak
I fall inside myself, fall
past the leaves and into the earth.
The soil nurtures me, I grow
like a mushroom in solitude.

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