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Slough Feg
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Atavism
Descending and turning
A shadow with soles in his hand
Standing alone by the garden I hear his command
Swaying blindly, under a moribund sun
Strangely the pain has only begun
Painlessly crossing the yard-lines,
The ball in his hand
Piles of bodies dispatched in the grass
And the sand
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Helmets crashing, under the weight of the one
Vaguely aware the pain has begun
Out of the window the sirens of slaughter begin
Whistling alone in the silence
I hear them come in
Fading, blinded, foraging under the leaves
Strangely the pain is finally relieved
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