Bloodied Sunday in
the torpid atmosphere
of miasmic rural rectitude
drinking ice-cold beer the way
men do from the bottle
shooting the breeze profoundly
without making sense
but who gives a damn
Come Monday and who
cares but the sun and the
flowers and the unforgiving
sounds of a day growing
tired of waiting for someone
to rise and grasp remnants
gather together effects
of Sunday’s excess
Chicken pen gates tell
a tale that chills flesh
stumbling into significance
anonymous dead bloodied
amongst feathers scattered
a carnage that says how useless
it is to charge Nature
with malicious intent
© 7 September 2009, I. D. Carswell
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