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Dawn Harvest

by Marcus Lane

This morning's piercing shaft is cruel.
A grim grey blanket
Hovers over sleep-sodden fields.

The harvest has begun.

Spectres spiral in weary wisps,
Gorged full with the dawn’s ravaging.

A tiny figure
Frail and tearful
Clutches her thorny stem.

Her dove-white dress
Is ripped and stained,
And on her bare toes

The petals drop.


Posted on 06/20/2010
Copyright © 2021 Marcus Lane

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Joe Cramer on 06/20/10 at 03:49 PM

... outstanding.....

Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 12/11/17 at 04:37 PM

A marvelous and oh so subtle ode. Congratulations on POTD.

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