In the fields the birds cluster,
Black clouds moving as one
Amongst the pale winter wheat,
Short, methodical hops
Of beaks, feathers, and wings,
And eyes like those of snakes,
While in the empty village,
Deep within the hollow church,
The old priest with trembling hands
Places upon the simple altar
Our offerings of birds,
And grain, and our selves.
No comments:
Post a Comment