Expanse of Time and Place

Out west, wheat-belt country is also the country of the ancients,
where the rusted water tower on the land is the earth stone well.

Your missing face flaps in the wind from the tower’s iron supports
and your name passes from person to person along cobbled streets.

The skull of a fallen crow makes its bed in the field of wheat,
but maybe it’s the remains of a chicken; your birthday surprise.

Dust and dried blood are what’s left of the crow’s feathers,
but the feather quill helps you write your numbers; I II III IV V.

Echoing through the country silence the tone of tin can against iron,
is gladiators, bathed in sweat with swords clashing at battle.

Your cherished rag doll face down in a ditch can’t help you now,
nor can the clay figurine with broken limbs that will soon be dust.

There’s a gentle breeze unsettling the empty rocking chair on the porch,
but it passages softly through the legs of your low wooden stool.

The lone magnolia tree has given up on painting with fresh flowers,
but fresh flowers sit in a stone vase longing for your swift return.

Newspapers cover windows, veiling emotion and casing conversations,
while worried words are being had between the mothers on the ostium.

A telegraph pole stands erect in the distance. It connects to nowhere
and there is nowhere for your winged messenger to rest over the ocean.

The wail of police sirens in the unseen distance gets slowly louder
and crowds are beginning to gather with long sticks and pitchforks.

It’s best that I say goodbye to you now, for the storm is gathering pace
and soon you’ll be out of sight both across time and across place.