Our Lady of Sorrow

Who makes the law
who measures sin
and counts out guilt
when birds have flown
the hills that moan
a tree on fire
green churchspire
of weeping stone
cracking bone
and marble dust
the creeping rust
eats iron gates
blood was spilled
a bankrupt rate
a lusting hate
which slowly filled
eyes and hands
black and red
and now the dead
measured in bands
of trees that burned
and crows that fled
the men of straw
and paper blown
along the wind

David Aronson
October 1999