OTHER-LANDS
- 4 days ago
- 1 min read
By David C. Weinczok
Salt-fresh their
sea-plucked prows breach
ivory
sands piercing the
frail shallows
of island peace
wake and quake
tonight the moon
will glint blood
in the machair
Storm-willed their
white horses trod
the sea roads
to plough red rigs
in the earth
no corn shall grow
this season
on the strand hewn
by black hulls
from other-lands
Sword-won their
keels heavy as
summer creels
leave cold silence
in their wake
our dead we lay
in watchful
mounds to keep a
vigil wrought
of turf and bone