Scabland

An ointment jar glistens on the plain
while the moon pushes itself up
like a pregnant shark.

A cluster of young children with sticks
are busy pummeling something.

The village elder has set fire to a stand
of infested hemlocks, and a girl with blue hair
considers the thrashing heads.

Timber has a way of splintering
like the dreams of the most lonely.

Almost Beowulfian, the schematics.

A bibbed toddler
seizes a flaming branch
and holds it aloft, as if in challege.

Copyright © 2005 James Grinwis All rights reserved
from Backwards City Review

Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission