deepundergroundpoetry.com
the harvest
The Harvest
Black, starless late September sky, the moon a golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest time. They had forgotten to close windows and chill will settle in old lungs, spitting blood.
Church bells toll.
The old priest is still on holiday; the new one is clumsy, hasn’t
had a bath and a shave for days; an unspoken murmur of discontent.
The cleric sweats; there is a smell of brandy,
one of the church’s rejects?
But they do take care of their own. This isn’t swine flu,
nothing to report, just old people dying as they must.
Black, starless late September sky, the moon a golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest time. They had forgotten to close windows and chill will settle in old lungs, spitting blood.
Church bells toll.
The old priest is still on holiday; the new one is clumsy, hasn’t
had a bath and a shave for days; an unspoken murmur of discontent.
The cleric sweats; there is a smell of brandy,
one of the church’s rejects?
But they do take care of their own. This isn’t swine flu,
nothing to report, just old people dying as they must.
Published 24th Dec 2017
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 0
reading list entries 0
comments 0
reads 507
Commenting Preference:
The author is looking for friendly feedback.
