This wounded land.

Moving on, stepping through treacle, head bowed
And no view to the distance.
Only today, and in today no pleasure, grey skies
And steel rain drops crying for the past they
Have left behind.
Rubble, bricks broken, and bent metal rods, with
Pieces of wood reaching an imploring hand
To find the help and support that will
Never reach them.
Sad trees, dew-dropped branches, dipping
Tiredly towards the dead-leaf-strewn earth
At their feet, and unable to move old
Roots, no chance of moving on to
Warmer climes.
The water, lapping out of time, touching the shingled
Shore, and retreating again and again, pleading
For a kind word, but
It never happens.
Songs that should be hymns of joy, instead
The funeral dirges of hopes and dreams,
And the grief-ridden notes echo long
And haunt the ears of the
Struggling man.
And still, plodding on, dragging each foot in turn
Free of the treacle-tug, and slipping and falling,
No hand hold.

© 2ndwitch, 03/01/15