ManicWorld Magazine

wind from the North is hardly kind,
sure enough: the clouds flee
coagulate again over roasted crops and scatter cackling crows from scary puppets
trees that stood proud for centuries
are forced to their knees
the wind swoops to fell their heads,
shakes the field and leaves stems quaking in its wake
and the poppies drop from chests above trenches
and still feet pound the ground:
who lights the torches they carry?
scribes of messages that’ll never reach–
boys under mud kneeling by oil and candle to send home shaky kisses scrawled on paper
who else to keep ‘em company by pigeons
robbed of iridescent plumage by camo blanketed sky: no light anywhere but reflections in humans’ dusty eyes
yet the storm thickens.