Of Thorn and Rain

The mournful cry
beneath the stars,
the silver mist
in darkness falls.

The lonely flute
on windswept plains,
evokes the song
of thorn and rain.

Where have the living creatures gone?
Where have they hidden in the song?

Like wisps of flame
on sword and shield,
the glittering eyes
glare from the field.

The whispering brush
both ebbs and flows,
the crickets sing
their fervid prose.

Where have the living creatures gone?
Where have they hidden in the song?

13 August 2007 By Glen Alan Woods