The skies - they keep on altering their ways
As I fly high
Through mists and haze -

The green
Green
Grass
Of England waves -
Then off! Toward uncertain days.

The mountains plea with screaming souls
Below the stone - pale bones of old
The spirits -
Keep me from the cold
Of night

- I travel through the light.

The dusk
Attires its purple drapes
Upon the backs of barren straights.
Through red; I tread - I navigate
The olive trees
The dust crowned plates.

The fires blaze
With vehement cheer
The cackling - of yesteryear.
For they attest
Remember well
A city that was thrown to hell.

To hell it fell upon the earth
No man to toil the thirsty dirt
To prophesy
Or too impart
A little of - desirous heart.

The feral winds
Beat closer now. A line is drawn aside
The plough.
The lands surrender to the sun

- Whose fate lies in the hands of young.

© Deborah Gordon 2008