Today a low November sun <br />Sketches the bones of poplars <br />Black on clear blue <br />Beside the farmhouse <br />A 200-year-old teak <br />Writhes against heaven. <br /> <br />Obsolescent dream <br />And dumped forever <br />Under similar flat fields. <br />Distant through the fog <br />Of war they'd have thought <br />Still the same and <br />Irredeemably changed. <br /> <br />Now as the clock ticks towards <br />Eleven, the stillness quakes <br />An ambulance races <br />Howling down the by-pass <br />A jet fighter screams low across <br />And all the quiet gardens.<br /><br />WILFRED JOHN<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writhes-against-heaven/
