image borrowed from bing
Tilting At Windmills
The wheel is still, the vanes silent
in tracks where the wind blows dust,
where rust corrodes the axle.
Steam of the spiraling planet
furrows my brow, corrugates creases,
oxidizing the old iron clad
wisdom of youth - refrain of nun
and monk in scapular and hood.
A sword spins, the blades spiral
in whorls of revolt, circle the globe
in a dance of the whirling dervish.
Blood of the slain runs in rivers,
flooding the red-stained earth,
cleaving a red sea, seeking a route
to salvation. Sound of bellows, quakes -
blades of grass growing through rubble.
Ann Grenier
Posted over on her site Knot in Line
Listed as #17 over on Magpie Tales 76
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