Fall of grace

Fighting the winter fall of grace,

Spring had greened the sheep-grazed hedges,

blued the cold lake in the mountain

battered into a shapeless hat;

The grasslands fell flat to the west.

The twisting stream-rush beat their ears.

The river slid to the lakes.

They filed up small as grubbing ants.

The pull stronger than gravity,

They lugged themselves to innocence.

But somewhere a serpent glided:

Gunshots growled out in the valley.

A body dumped in vengeance

stained the wood below with blood.

Gang honour is the coin of thieves,

Homeric hard on human hearts.

Shucked clean, they’ll learn about life now.
The paradise of Cain can’t stand.