Frozen, they placed heavy footprints

on hard-packed foliage, etched ice;

the withered bark stretched around

in slanting lines, near-collapsing.

 

Moving these weights, one step, two;

these notions in a February mist;

regrets like the broken skies above,

where clouds drift dark with mingled smoke

from fires marking from whence they came.

But no scars give away their crime;

forged steel purpose in their mind;

enclosures rigid, fences reared,

and minutes pass, drift, into years...

 

That one summer, where they fell

together, interloping, eager-eyed;

all promises once carved in ink;

erased and shredded, burned, buried.

 

Night now draws on,

the stars are veiled,

for no lights would be seen

shining upon them.

 

NB: NOT a poem about politics per se.