April's Wintry Sun Poem by Geoff Lathy

When April’s wintry sun
Flows across the burning churchyard
And its rows of rank stone…
There’s nothing to it,
This slow crawl across eternity.
Tongue torn out; roots,
Withered and dry,
Song stilled,
Eyes blistered,
With limbs lead-limned,
This living, breathing, charnel house,
I cannot escape nor articulate,
Following voices through the wasteland
Hopes cupped in empty hands,
Silenced by the bite of bitter
Iron in flesh and splintered wood.