After the Battle
By: John Grey
The sun perishes like a bad peach,
grows black and distant.
The horse stops to nibble
the thin stiff grass
in the last shadow of the abandoned church.
A few dusty bricks are scattered about,
the debris of a forgotten religion.
Wind desecrates the altar
with bald, brown leaves.
Crows occupy its cross.
I sit still and silent
on this beast's roan back,
my enthusiasm for the journey
riding the fading light
until its weight can
no longer hold me.
Somewhere in that steed's head,
in the nervous quiet
of icy sweat
and memory of all those
fallen horses,
he sadly previews his own death.
Curiously enough,
I have escaped mine,
no arrow thoughtful enough
to shatter this rusty armor,
make bloody peace
with my thoughts.
In the valley behind me,
a thousand dead
turn sheep meadow into battlefield.
Their screams,
now frozen in nameless mist,
rise behind me
like disillusioned angels,
set something free,
though not this country.
War, war and more war.
My shield of roses
flops to the ground
like a severed limb.
The day, bless its weary heart,
turns to night for absolution.
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