Imperial Stone

I spent early evenings in the fields
with mothers, my own, and those
who were painted in frosted glass

Daughters, hunched between the rows
a litter of pauper sheep
worn, wooded toes

trailing tales of vine and grape
a hue of women, hollow eyes, baked and stained
his story told

Ninette was her own
she fed on his ruin:
'We march on Moscow', flurry firn, his error

'We send more', she flung handfuls of sweetened pebbles into the air
The taste in my mouth
thick and sour

Our brothers and fathers
yet to come home
And those who were buried, turned to fish under the snow

Our trust, he ate, and swallowed whole
His vindication:
The creeping plant in Burgundy, turning to black, peppered and old

Before him, there was a King who borrowed our souls
What was left, we sold to him, he used us to color the North in blood
A jingle still rings of children who are made of stone and snow