the fields are dry now.
air coarse with
echoes of husks
scratching in
a breeze of fire.

peeling crackle
mocks love that
for a time created
lushness.
the bursting
laughter of the earth
scorched to weed
and bone.

the rhythmic creak of
wood underneath
was a simple thing.
the sky was pink
and then his eyes
saw nothing.