Here where the meadow
slopes down to the river
we kneel by the lee of the hill

And around us the poppies
are yawning and dour
in an hour that's gaping and still

The rusted spires
of our troubled thoughts
jut from the ground with the grass

So far from us that
we can just see their tips,
angled skyward and swaying like masts

Then we stir up the water,
pour all of our restlessness
into that ribbon of rain

Pitch dirt clods
like bullets at the far bank,
aim to strike at its clay veins

'Till the mouth of the river
is pitted and torn
and the meadowlark keens in the heath

And we've combed clumps of soil
from the grip of the roots
that lie bare and exposed like tree's teeth

While the dolorous eyes
of the frogs and the flies
glint from the tall reeds nearby

And the mouse and the fox
slink like thieves in the grass
where they're following us on the sly

Night falls on the hill
like ink spilled from above
and turns our eyes up to the clouds.

In the sky overhead
we are mirrored in stars,
asterisms wrapped sweetly in shrouds.