Savage Sky

 

Savage Sky

In this savage sky,
in this ragged hour,
a low, winter sun
glazes soft
all flesh of inordinate pallor,
embarrassed by impotence.

Unravelling powder blue ribbons,
colouring brittle braids
blown among briered 
mountains of white.
Black cattle bellowing
in coarse vernacular
a dumb language of instinct, lust.

And crying like a child, each insipid sow.

You can smell the sea,
but not see it, 
cupped in hands of granite,
cold, loved.
Suffering the separation
of centuries, more.



©AndrewJamesMurray
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