Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of
Thistles spike the summer
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful
Of resurrection, a grasped
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud.
Their sons
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
