The drunk
waxing poetic
spent the day
in a red orgy
of poppies
and wild tulips
in a field
a quarter mile
past the archway
that leads
to the winery’s
tasting room
as somber crows
sat on fence posts
and watched him
find seven
rusted bayonets
in a line
too straight
for combat
but indicative
of a trench
by the nearby swells
in the landscape
that once
were likely
large caliber
artillery craters
that threw
tons of earth
and buried
those soldiers
ready to go
over the top.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
