Swirl in a lark’s eye
Sparks alive are swooping slow
The Village is a tear in a quail-packed quilt
Fluffed and flattened farm gardens
Diced by dark-hedged crosswords
Hardened in the moon’s stare
Standing stone, laying stone
Sleep like the people
Who have calcified in the shade of the steeple
Market Day and a creaking dray
Wheel through the sky
Deliver the yawning sun from the bed of the dale
Splash awake their pale plate-faces
The Village is alive

https://requiemforavillage.com

— Rick Krueger