Winter in France
December 17, 2015 § Leave a comment
December, the draped ruins of a village
where the rain has frozen down the street
and a path is scoured across a pond.
They hear voices, stick pounding to a wall:
it’s only crows. They watch them drift
into the pewter sky. Uwayne steps out,
is shot, and drops on the black ground.
Dragged back, he is breathing quickly
and holding on to them like a man
almost drowned. For olde brothirhode
he says, pulling at them gently,
thynke on me. Then he is gone.
(from ‘Gawain’, The Grail Roads – work in progress)