Empty shells
between mountains / the lower half
of a village made alone by war
and people’s politics.

March. Walk.

Labyrinth of scrub a
half-day
walk on rills and pasture.
Gravel popped beneath our
soles /
drumming in the distance.
March. Walk.

Time took roofs but
left frames, except the
skulls
which you had time
to carry.
March. Walk.

Over the outcrop /
and you’re forgotten
salt soothes our thoughts
floats our
bones.

We march. Walk.

© SF Jones, 2014

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