American Passage
The moon, a cataract cloaked
in its charcoal fog, slowly seeps
among the trees; night's unguent.
Its glance is constant and white,
its arc known. I watch its brow of bone
with constant wonder.
The long, slow funeral of America
is taking its time; its pallbearers' hands
strain heavy with the weight.
The caisson creaks forward, the horse sweats,
riderless. The widows are not surprised.
in its charcoal fog, slowly seeps
among the trees; night's unguent.
Its glance is constant and white,
its arc known. I watch its brow of bone
with constant wonder.
The long, slow funeral of America
is taking its time; its pallbearers' hands
strain heavy with the weight.
The caisson creaks forward, the horse sweats,
riderless. The widows are not surprised.
|
6
favs |
853 views
6 comments |
66 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
The author has not attached a note to this story.
Other stories by Philip F. Clark
Tags
This story has no tags.
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
So many writers mourn America today. Non readers remain oblivious waiting for the trickle down effect. But I swear there is a pulse yet. Cheers.
The moon stanza sets the mood for the dirge with its weighty details. And those all-knowing widows--perfect ending.
The moon stanza is beautiful.
Great stuff, Philip. I like this.
Thank you, all.
***