A Pastoral Woman

A Pastoral Woman


On Rogation Sunday in a field in Kent

The flowing blessing is presently underway.

And in a building too shy to hold a woman

Of the blackest hair and an even blacker stare

The real sinner begs mercy for the whispered acts

Not yet committed.  And so she grotesquely hunched

Down the peloton of angles on one’s shoulders




Go fair lady, searching the desert now,

For but a drop of water coming from your heart.

Sepia words blow forth a dust bowl of their own,

Sounded to the crispy crunch of yellowing leaves.

While scarecrows create panegyrics to th’ nothingness

While a Parthenon of murder gawks at the sun,

She walks alone, hand-in-hand like a baby lost.




For getting sucked into an empty roynish hole

In the midst of a field’s sensual rotation

Is like wearing a gown picked by Russian-roulette.

For “now” and “then” are but two chads strewn on the floor

And she can read the emotions on a clock-face.

Recall a town hall that votes on fresh opinions

Will negate the vote to vote in the summertime.



The cold hand of Old Man Time’s on a sapling’s neck

And shivered shoulders are sold for the warmth o’ the self

With only coins stamped for Charon and taxes left

To send that from the starved lips of a thingummy

Qui’tly walking down this chilly old frog and toad.

Now she’ll mix olios of rare design from a’ far.

And let that elusive mercy return again.