two old ropes

Two old ropes, gnarled and caked in mud

tangle around the trunk stump of a dead oak,

each end leading away into the lush grass,

one rope trailing north and the other south,

like a madman's compass,

like branches leading off into confusion,

like broken promises between two lovers.

The buzzards and the birds

of prey fly overhead,

circle, spot a place to land,

then dive to ground, but

– just before their talons dig into the earth -

they swoop off again,

screaming their disapproval.

The sun and the moon stand guard above,

each fighting to abandon post,

obligatory sentinels,

ready to surrender

or wait for the fire

from the lightning strike

to erase this obscene canvas

and bring the great regeneration

of what has been purified.