The song of barbed wire, strung taut on old posts,
the way my grandfather labored on the steep hillside,
the horizon distracting him as he wiped sweat from his brow.
Already the siren call of the deep valley below the mountain
will lead his children astray, the long arm of the known world
promising so much and yet offering little in return.
A torrent of syllables and fragments slipping over rocks
among the old bones, in the creekbed in deep summer.
The body’s doubt, and the knowledge of regret holding us back.
This is take two. Dissatisfied with my first iteration, I tried it again only having a fragmented line or two to launch from. I was quite surprised to find my long-dead grandfather lurking in the poem.
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