CHRISTMAS PREPARATIONS OF THE PEASANTS
[October The Doleful Season Of Betrayal]
While I prefer the crispy icy whitness of the deep winters,
and the woods of eyes and whiskers, where ponds gleam like
eyes that have held back tears over injustice for too long,
and the sun creates trails in golden slithers, to lead us on,
in our heavy boots and scarves, to the psychopathic farms.
I mourn for the murdered of late October, where pumpkins grin,
beneath darkening skies, beside the mournful parade of death,
of gaping, gargling pigs betrayed and squealing in rustic sheds,
bloodied aprons and guts on boots of the brutal nasty peasants,
amid the doleful wailing of an old cow, whose calf was found
behind a mouldy bale, then torn forever, from her mother's love.
And many dear turkeys, so worried and highly strung, always
needing reassurance, as if they knew this day would come.
And many valiant geese honking, in their last stand at dawn,
from an evil territory of terror, that they could not escape,
to be a royal pate subject on a plate. Geese of magnificence,
but waddling like toddlers, then stumbling and readjusting
their stride over the larger rocks and fungus ladden wood,
until they too, like trusting infants, are brutally murdered.
A sweet drake's head chopped off, to a fit of raucous laughter,
with gay music to lift the spirits, blaring in the background. |
