The Last Moving Thing

31 January 2012 // Poetry

A poem by Will Burns.

The sun no longer rises
above the bare rock hills
around the house.
All that I ever see now

above the line of the horizon
is the dominion of the trees –
leafless, scratching at the sky
in bare, black lines.

The light receded slowly
and with it, bit by bit
was spent the life and
colour of the place.

All things moved away or died,
a mulch covered the ground,
then dissipated, revealing
a caustic white chalk below.

Although there were not,
and now never will be,
any specific acts of violence,
I am left the only movement in the air.

Share |