The birds sing stark in zero hour.
No…nothing but stillness shattered.
Linger lives in breasts, hearts depart.
The tainted honour is past passing.
–
These men, whose centenary ends,
Keep regards in hollow dust clouds.
For July’s gross hand takes her plough.
Makes it easy for the knife tears,
To hack, to pierce a self so certain.
–
I often wonder if we could speak of it.
