Poem: In the Day of the Great Slaughter

By Les Blake


Young September in the city

parkbenched with the good

book, water whispering near

running dark and God, the gritty


two leaves now spinning skew

in sunlight’s morning cup

bottomside down then up

in gravity’s flutter flue


leaf on leaf, set fast to page

let fresh from tree still living

veiling now unreadable words

in the now unwordable age.