From Lofts Afar

From Lofts Afar
Luke 18:13


by john clare

The night the living fled
The half moon hung above the
Shaky way.
Upon un-trod paths of the
Once dead
A wail for the reassuring light of
Day.

In smoke clear rooms of barren walls
The remnant re-hung the empty
Frames.
Who remained to quiet the
Microphones white noise?
To wipe the blood trails awful stain?

To barns and lofts they made their
Way
As from leaden heavens the blood
Of glory rushed
And dimmed any hope of a day
Of righted half moons above us.

In suspended search parties hope
Was lost
Pleas ignored from those who knew
The very location of the loft
Where the impaled groans led to.

Can we ever restore the scattered shot?
Bring the pride of aim to a stop?
Under a spilling moon there is a loft
Go my men and gather again under
A crooked cross.