From down a broken road of
vine canopy, draped and dangling,
the harmonica cries low and lonesome.

Shadow creeps across the valley, shades
the tower where a blind-eyed sentry stares.
Red brick rows sink in red clay, the yard
chokes in weed and insect shriek; razor wire
flickers in fading light.

At twilight they come, clad
in grave clothes, pressed to the mesh
hammer clawed and weeping.

12/24/2004

Posted on 12/24/2004
Copyright © 2026 David Hill