Alba
Her eyes were the blue of the skies
Of her Island home
Who will take her now?
Her mind is mad as sparrows
She can make no more
When one of the Southern host
Pour in: shadow of pitch
Over slipping silk
Darknening her skies
Cracking the eggshell harvest
Splitting the white husk
To unveil a modern clay
For modern potters in irreligious play.
All bodies rot, "she must change, must!"
Wither away, she will
Be no more than the dust
Over fields of blood crust
Stumps brown with rust
A small girl lost and running.