by Sara King
Silence isn't always golden.
A woodsman sprawled beside his boar,
A goodwife prone behind her door,
A milkmaid still on trampled straw,
A miner slumped within the maw.
The darkness comes and still they sleep,
With no soul for them to weep.
The sun rises to warm their skin,
But finds a war it cannot win.
The woodsman’s hounds lie at his sides.
The goodwife’s cat in a corner hides.
The milkmaid’s cow lowes for a drink.
The miner’s bird seeks dented link.
The silence reaches every corner,
Leaving victims without mourner.
Except those who bravely yearn,
For their masters to return.
The hounds circle but cannot leave,
The cat remains inside to grieve,
The cow nudges a fallen hand,
The bird pecks at the weakened band.
The hounds bay and waste away,
The cat mews but does refuse
The cow cries and slowly dies,
The bird pries but down it lies.
The alleys barren of cart and horse,
The dust thick, the hedges coarse,
The buildings lined in tidy rows,
The town is silent but for the crows.