Death Blows a Hallow Horn
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In a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider’s last breath,
and on your grave sing the owl and raven
in the shadows of the valley of death.
Where no graven image rise from its bones,
only a cold wormwood wind on death row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
But far more does sound a haunting in me
as if your faint voice my ear passing through -
and I trapped betwixt life and parody
sit this day communing with God and you.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when it comes to blow its pale hallow horn.
Written: July 1995
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2024
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