COLD TURKEY
Grey clouds flow from Northern sky
with double-edged Puritan intent
Flexing sharp scythes to sweep
southern slopes on Shannon drowned pastures
A dismal day’s dark display of religion
The twenty-fifth of the twelfth month
Gone now and far away.
As dead as slaughtered birds
beneath a butchers knife,
A cold turkey.
©MRL 2017
Áine Mc said:
ReplyDeleteDear Mel,
The spirits of the turkeys �� say thank you to you.
A XX
You are very welcome.
ReplyDeletelove this. Very mournful.
ReplyDeleteIt needed to be said... and thank you Rachel.
ReplyDeleteA powerful poem - conjures up such images! Love it.
ReplyDeleteThanks very much for your comment, for which I am exceedingly grateful !
DeletePoor turkeys. Cold indeed. Strong images, Mel! Sad too.
ReplyDeleteThank you Val.
DeleteThe images can be translated in other ways or that is what I intended the reader to do and always when reading poetry to look beyond, to find a greater depth.