‘Fragment 12’

The slaughter began at the noonday of my creed.

Poets became murderers as the anarchy cast petal-blades in their hearts.

The innocents were moorland chimes.

I saw the previous infatuations: A church slid from the skyline.

Deep down I knew dogma had no mercy for itself

and was automatic in violence

even at the end of a day’s revelation.

And on each blade of grass, a reddened Silence was hanging

the weight of a fallen deed.