A selection of words for anyone looking for a Sunday prompt. My poem follows.
Sun rises in the silence
like the tolling of a bell,
rolling over stricken treetops,
not golden fall but the fall
of godlike things, charred and dead.
Once, there were swamps and giant reptiles here,
now dead frogs litter the lane,
feathers drift in dry ditches
where cats crouch,
their eyes narrow slits, distant.
The story fills a thousand books,
how it was, is now and will be.
Fish still glint in dwindling pools,
too many float in the liquid heat.
Soon the rifles will sound again,
the cracks in the armour widen,
and I fear we will follow the echoes
of the last flying hooves.
Standing on the edge of this moment
with the internal clamour
of jangled connections
I search the trees, oaks still green.