Saturday, September 10, 2011

Feathers Float Away

Buckskins, scraped with  bare-knuckle scrubs
a destroyed village - runs down…to the mud.

As water rushes, then overwhelms
the banks - along the shores
of destiny, lays the soil of men
and their worn cloths.

Their knees are skinned
and so are the bloody red hands
of the coats - like Custers last stand.

In the black hills of the greasy lands
no bands play, but seven-beats
of an Indian drum - are heard.

The winds change and clouds reform
as the feathers - float away.


  1. Some years ago, I travelled the historic sites and sceneries of on the US East Coast and was impressed by the landscape, the old towns and the atmosphere of stillness.
    Your poem seems a replica of those reflections in my mind. You so beautifully put these into words of poetry. Thanks, David Brydon!

  2. Wonderful imagery as always I could see it all. Thank you again.