Slaghtmaand
Written by David Harmer
Snow is coming.
An ice whisper
rattles in the sky’s voices.
The horizon glitters,
a knifeblade slitting open
black throated hills, the moorland’s belly
bleeds dark water, peat bogs
and rough pastures
will soon be salted down
preserved until the thaw.
Our boats are numbed,
timbers drenched and soaked
the keels scraped across the beach.
Their carcasses are gutted,
They overturn, exposing open wounds.
Soon the sky will be butchered.
The beasts always know our coming.
They raise their blunt muzzles
dripping from the mud
watch the axes
like the children watched us
carve and hack their village
this time last year.
Now our boats are beached
drying out their bones.
Once more a year sinks to its knees
bellows out a death,
our axes cut deep red lines
through the sky’s neck
at the time of the slaughter
a month before winter comes.