Marilyn HumbertA black line of clouds
expands upwards above the trees.
I watch in confusion.
Your boots
crumble honeycomb-cracks
stepping across the yard
towards me.
Your frown deepens,
battered hat in hand.
My smile falters.
The stifling heat.
On a day like this
the crows are silent
above the remains
of the breeding flock.
We sip bitter tea
left stewing in the pot.
Our unuttered words
these harvests of dust.
On a day like this
at the crossroad
our son died
wrapped in metal.
