111 words
His world is ochre over which a crow
at dusk flies home. A bankrupt’s house and barn,
a field assailed by January snow,
the river winding like a spinning yarn.
No human drama in his straw-filled frame,
as he hangs, facing nature hard at work:
the lynx in the black thicket hunting game,
the maelstrom in the icy water’s murk.
No father comes down from a sunlit cloud
to save the lemmings headed for the shore.
There is the smell of raw meat, blood and bone,
deer fur spewed under oak trees in the wild.
There is no Pilate, Lazarus, or poor.
And yet the cross is heavier than stone.
2 Comments
Leo Yankevich, please make your poems available to be bought on Kindle or PDF or something that does not involve a hefty donation to the USA postal service for shipping.
All books PUBLISHED by Counter-Currents are available in the EU and Australia at DOMESTIC shipping rates, because they are printed there. That only goes for CC titles though, not books that we distribute.