Upon their wings they paint the roses
of all yesterday's tea-parties
and all yesterdays beheadings.
When I wake I see them still,
the ironic flowers of war,
ferric in their ferocity,
their cross to bear.
And would that the rood re-transformed
and flowered again
but it is an already-deceased tree cut down to craft the cross.
I saw them cut it yesterday.
No comments:
Post a Comment