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Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.


Submitted by Stephen Fryer

Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 20 Nov 2008 2:26 PM | Viewed: 7963 times

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