USA

frastus@frontiernet.net

dusk in April

Blonde medusan bushes
rage beside the stream
that runs beneath the road.

The expressionless, featureless faces
of the stone children of the mountain
watch from the ripped womb,
huddle behind the barren trees,
the shattered ribs of fallen trunks and branches.

In the distance a hawk hovers.
The ridge of trees beyond it
and the red sky behind them
are suspended from its wings
on invisible wires.

The cloudy archipelagos
are like a myth, a scene
enacted to appease the coming night,
the swollen goddess of the moon.

© All Copyright, JB Mulligan.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.