The Hurlers of Bod

Defying daybreak fog,

Crooked monuments arise.

Great molars prised from gum of dirt,

Seeds of ancient lore, unearthed.

Caskets inclined against tundra,

Fashioned by Time’s mournful trek, whose

Murmur discloses a cautionary tale

Of sinful lads skipping church for play –

Dared kick a ball on Holy Day!

God hovers over pulpit of prayer,

With one eye on His herd,

Another trained on a distant gap in the heather.

Handsomest of all, falls first-

Leaden with thirst, fingers clasped about tongue.

Defenders and strikers, second cursed,

Skin mottled, mouths sewn shut, eyes pursed.

Digits, toes, elbows and knees snapped clean-off.

Grief-stricken figures of marrow and frost.

Oft-spotted at dawn,

The Hurlers pitch fresh curses

At untainted skies, but done in silence

Like God’s worst crimes.

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