Under the Dead Moon
by
David Whitehead
(I currently have no email address for David, but please
email me with your comments, and I'll be sure to pass them on.)
They were a sacrifice to hatred and violence,
A fulfilment at the stroke of destruction
To a greater innocence.
Tortured and twisted they became grotesque
Parodies of a previous grace, ribcages shattered
And legs splayed into hideous angles.
Before, they would herd overnight in stalls
Timid and closeknit as deer,
Midnight catching their silver sheen,
And dawn would ignite their instincts,
A squeak and a stretch as they strained
To go their separate ways,
Elegant beasts of burden and keenly
Responsive throughout each routine journey
To the slightest whisper of the traces.
But that was yesterday! Before evil
Made us redefine what is good
And all those soft edges were erased,
Before under the dead moon the vandals crept in,
Sought out and savaged the weakest targets,
Tossing the remains to canal, skip and siding.
The healing process, though, addresses no equal,
It rescues and restores, replaces if needs be,
Alchemises despair into hope,
And sooner than we think, - today, now,
The eager trolleys leap again from their blocks,
Some piggying wide-eyed infants.
Some harmlessly highjacked by excited schoolboys,
But most weave down and harvest the aisles of plenty
That remain the real object of the vandals' hatred.
