Pastoral

The bleak sky cackles its tears
over the field of my scars,
set to seed in my child-skin
to tangled weed my soul within.

Now see the winter of my bark,
bent and black by fear's long tale.
Hear my rain as you lay dying
penitent by comfort's wine.

A red sun bleeds its eyes of light
into our night and love's lost hollow.
I hate you, even in your sorrow,
for stealing every good tomorrow.

Perhaps a flower for your soil
will weep for you, instead of I.
Perhaps it sees the damage done
to the no-one of my son.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.