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by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Across the ochre meadow
He stumbled,
Wildflowers dotting
Unfamiliar terrain, quivered
In morning's cool breeze.
The same gentle wind
Slightly ruffled his hair.

For a brief moment
Clouds obscured sun
Then the high-pitched
Click and clink
Of metal upon metal–
Ammunition loaded,
Rifles cocked,
While butterflies danced
An erratic air ballet.

How would he have described
The staccato sound of a firing squad
As it shatters the golden dawn?
Or should one perhaps
Refer instead
To the sudden cessation of birdsong
Then the silken whisper of wings…
Against a blood drenched sky;
As seen through
The dead poet's eye?


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