The lace-rime dances down the line
Tenuous at best
To form the sparkling crystal tines.
Who, seeing, would have guessed
That beauty white and stark would hide
The cutting killing edge
That flesh of man and beast divides,
Tetanus left, wounded pledge
Of worse, much worse, that’s yet to come.
Beneath the pure disguise
The rusted straining barbed trap strums
The twang of ‘trust me’ lies.
Wary weary gloved leather hands
Stretch and twist, marking ‘mine’
More than slicing flesh, it cuts the land
Makes of ownership a shrine.
Anchorites bound with wage-drawn vow
Dare scalpel-flame of cold,
Ride boundaries of here and now,
Pilgrims circling the fold,
For land will yield to man’s device,
Greener grass the herds entice,
’Thine’ and ‘mine’ would not suffice,
And warm sun light will conquer ice.

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