they drank the
all father those rough
clad soldiers who did
not call themselves soldiers
at all they
had less words. many words less than now
in a circle of ancient rocks. when
"oh yes this is an old land there is no doubt. an angry land.
a simple one."
and every so often
there would be a hanging
and from all
villages or lonely farms the unspeaking men would
hardy ponies their proud women-
condemned would be
proud as well
and spitting on their poor
shoes thinking of
the bread they stole
(-much worth it-)
the horse they killed
and oh the rope was tomorrow one of the sisters said. "the rope is always tomorrow,
soaked in sweat. bidden and still as an old snake"
that evening when the
man was pirouetting from the
tomorrow-rope, after the
sisters had lost interest
all father would walk like a man roughly.
the crows hungering for the carrion
but all father would bide them backward
"this one is mine own. it is brave really to trip
and asphyxiate on the windy scream
of any tomorrow"