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THE MEADOW LARK
By Quentin Smith
A meadow-lark has pile-drived
Into the flowerless lawn
Quivering no more like an ancient
Spear in the molten sun
The grass is torn backwards
Around the sunken feathered
Down
There is no sound, all the birds
Have left the sky, have long ago
Flown far into the south
Written 1974 |