Black sunflower a heart-death
that calls out the autumn canker.
Your broken selves now mottled,
are whippe-lashed and wind-flapped.
Prickly, these yellow burnt leaves.
Rough and sand papered
as a workman’s beard
that left home long before
the day’s first light.
I walk through the broken
mountain scree, scattered
as rock song along my way.
Strange cries under sunflowers,
sheltered by an ancient barn.
A skein of geese
writ V on the grey.
Birds tiny and black
lined up on the wire, to
give their balanced gossip.
When will the farmer come
and take his rightful gain?
I won’t be waiting
for as soon as
this rain peters-out
I’ll be trudging the ways.
©️ Dai Fry October 23rd 2020.