Searching for light on a winter gray day
I drive south to where there is open land
and park my car by an old stone wall
that draws a line round the white manor house.
The owners who reigned here died away
though the legacy they left remains today.
Now down in the flats by the old quarters
ten mourning doves assemble in a line
and I see by the river a wall of armed men
pushing back people bleeding brown tears.
Then I hear like an echo as if from the past
the choir of doves begin their lament
and from the mud rose a thousand lost lives
each with the wings of an avenging angel.
