The colour red

As you thirst
Taste blood.
Today is said
The river runs red.

The battle goes poorly upstream.

Our mills are stained
our young go strange
our elders, changed.
Each day we watch the river for news
but find only red.

I pray for the river to run clear one day.

I pray for the wind
to comb from the trees
these bleeding memories

memories
hanging heavily over our words,
words, wordswordswordswords.
always wordswords

Perhaps I must learn to love the colour red.

The colour that, my elders have said,
is for Fools, Sentimentals
and the Dead.
 

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