Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Two Issue One       

David McLean

the rocks on the hill 

the rocks on the hill seem to be a cemetery
that could carry an infinity of deaths
eternal; up to where no heaven is,
just their cold embrace under this winter sun
that warms nothing, just rocks cupped
to take our graceless leavings.

yet still they live in a bloody loam
woven on the loom of the flesh, the soil
beaten together from remaindered beasts,
all the beaten hearts than have blackened to truth
there, given us their meaty reasons
and been feed for trees, greening all these leaves

eaten by tomorrows since yesterdays
that the beasts lived as one eternal finite day,
limited by the skin and the shadows
under trees where love sleeps,
cuddling death asleep -
something all our children seemed to be,

better because more stupid than you and me
who never dreamed; we are just wintering here
a minute, and, come spring and tomorrow,
we hope to be dead forever; meat
for the graceful ungracious trees,
not souls at all, just a morsel to eat