Stoke the fire with a prod,
call the child
in and out; a swell cross the yard
they come to;
a prickled sense of aught grips hard

father been sent out-
mother been sent in-

and in hour time
many them been brought
from France, Spain and Po-land
a great stagnant fear, so great that
tears no longer go plick!

but the dismal corners let go
of small flashes
they manifest in creased kind eyes

farmers plough crumblin' pastures
and upcome a pastoral miasma
bumping the human aside

the frost just set in; not a day old
another cry goes unheard
but his last respite,
lay not within the firepit

It lay on this hallowed
profane mountain
of improbable human folly
and impossible human perseverance