Found a house, upon a hill, its windows all shuttered
And a child, on the porch so still, as the mist loomed and covered
She asked, “What brings you here? Be it harm? Be it comfort?
Of both I had my fill. And of your feathered concert.”
Closer I did approach, saw her countenance muddied
A fear crept in my throat, saw her hands and face bloodied.
She cried, “My folk lie in the den, see their actions were damning.”
I heard the voice call out again, “Cut ‘em down where they’re standing!”
Raised her hands up to her eyes, and studied them closely.
Then clenched them as if she held a prize, as if they were deemed holy.
Drew a shape there on the porch, her palms were still dripping.
She said, “I will not speak remorse, I think the floorboards are listening.”
It was silent for a short time, though it felt everlasting.
I wondered if she loved any kind. There was no point in asking.
She tried to hide her grin, I felt the wind coming.
“Don’t leave, won’t you step on in? There’s no point in running.”
There’s a storm come, for the humbling, hear the cannons a drumming.
Oh, but I took to the skies again, left her to her humming.
© 2016 Drover Shy. All rights reserved.