August Night <br /> <br /> <br />Black, starless late August sky, a sliver of moon, <br />golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest <br />time. They had forgotten to close windows and <br />chill will settle in old lungs, spitting of blood. <br /> <br />Church bells toll the day is hot and gives nothing <br />away, the old priest is still on holiday, the new <br />one is clumsy, hasn’t had a bath and a shave for <br />days; unspoken murmur of discontent. <br /> <br />The cleric sweats, there is a smell of brandy, one <br />of the church’s rejects? But they do take care of <br />their own. This isn’t swine flu, nothing to report, <br />just old people dying as they must.<br /><br />oskar hansen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/august-night-2/
