Too many scythes

Too many scythes

Wielded clumsily

Whipping

At the bloom of young flowers

The bright things

The pretty heads

The dancing queens

Rolling and flopping in the air

Floating for a moment

Before they burst

In a welter of petals.

There are stones underfoot

Smoke in the air

Nothing lies flat anymore

Scythes swing

Heads fall

Too many to count.

The corn in the fields

Grows too brown

The men have long gone

The dry walls are broken

The sheep have been stolen.

Cities are full to bursting

Empty bellies swollen

Sad eyes sunken

The scythes

Turning to rust.

Poppies sway

Blown away

Cut stems stand

For the moment

Before they fall.

And dead heads go to rot

As sour rain scours

The old world bare.