2021.04.13.
Ballad to a Death
Dragging down his tired feethills high to the valley …
slumped and dropped without a beat
stack side, by the alley.
Seasons, years … who could tell?
Time goes by in bunches …
He was but a poor shell
going with the punches.
Folks just threw some dirt on him
in a place forgotten
where the village road at whim
cuts through forest rotten.
Ever since side by his grave
balding poplars flutter
summer days along they wave
in the breeze they sputter.
Unabated on her path
daylight faded, dwindled
time passed on and then it hushed
drifts of snow it sprinkled.
Sunrise mist rises in haze
lingers on the foothill
humming whispers slowly raise
circling round the rill.
Soaring in silver heights
do the eagles circle
now and then the quiet kites
quiver with a warble …
In the distance, in a bower
on a limb of maple
drowned in light of morning shower
alien bird perched stable.
Silent, waiting in a hush
as if counting minutes
watching shadows in a rush
following the linnets.
Unknown thus to folks around
drawn into oblivion
buried deep as he was found
in eternal Stygian.
Summer fades, along the trail
forest tremor quivers
dusky evenings further sail
into moonlit rivers.
And when darken clouds do shroud
whiter shade of twilight,
pounding autumn winds then plough
above his grave in flight…