The weather here was slaughtered
by a spinster with a cane.
When she died the river dried
like the blood in her veins.
From her heartbeat birds were drawn
by the fallow harvest moon,
arthritic crickets chiming in.
For disappointment soon
would find a fetus in the meadow
like glue dried to a rock,
widows’ riddles walking circles
with the rolling eyes of clocks,
and a scampering of souls
tracking through the barren dust
snacking on each other.
A pickup truck’s rust,
with the uprooting oak,
out of tact made a pact
for us future folk.
We gave thanks for a puppy
flattened on the interstate
when scowls turned to howls
and love made love to hate.
When answers to questions
questioned questions in return,
the river roared and we were bored,
the brittle bridges burned.
Featured image: The Coven, by Iain Andrews
50x60cm, acrylic and oil on canvas
Image used with permission from the artist.