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  • Writer's pictureCrone

Plantation Poplars

There is death in rows

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

Plotted from above

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

And so on

And on.


Thrust into unready earth those wounded roots

Cannot make sullen soil their home

And so they seek up up up

Feasting on air

Garbed in desperate green

Casting scent as a signal to the winds

Until the wind takes them


The sterile sticks of blind beggars

Searching

In an empty room

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