Move her into the snow,
Let her slow feet be dragged,
Her reluctance to die
Reflected on her face and eyes,
And the stoop of her tired frame.
Watch how she stands,
The hands prayer-like in pose;
The head to one side,
Wondering if this
Is the last sight
Of whiteness
Or would there be another,
And waiting for the sound
Of gunshot, she will not hear
Ring out across
The stark forest
Stretched out
Like a dull blanket
Behind her dead head.
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Comments: 18
Nice icon...do you play the clarinet?
Bravo!!
Love the differing moods this poem brings. From the whiteness of snow, to the red of the bloodshed. Thanks for being my friend.
Very vivid, very well done
Thank you, Shelbia. When I first saw the photograph I studied it and took in all that I could see and then the words came.