Wednesday, April 2, 2014
NOT AN AUBADE
In the thin light the traitors marched
(I had not thought that all the world
Could hold so many)
By ones they came, by threes, by fives,
Saying little. Their feet, treading firmly,
Raised the dust; it was a dry season.
One, very tall, walked with a limp
And almost fell. Another, fat and pale,
Lent his arm. I had thought birds
Would stop singing as they passed
Or fall, stricken, from the sky.
This did not happen.
All day, from my father's house,
I watched and wondered
And, towards twilight,
Took my place, towards the rear.