The Blind Times

Carved out of the sunlight,
The snow burns at its peak
To an avalanche of smoke
That buries all we speak.
We are one dumb gun-light
Of icy metal sight.
It’s the blind time of the fall
And our bodies by the wall.
The warlords when they come,
Stung by self-defeat,
Are terrorist and parasite
Spurred by perfect thief.
From the scribble of a leaf
And the print of a primrose bee
Above a snow-burnt tree
Sleep grows like a glacial grove
Of hard mud –black rock face.
Give me your gloved grace
And gun-lit sentinel love
For the cradle we want to save,
Tinkling, like the last ark,
Lacework,
In the permafrost of space.