kfg moore

On A Wintry View Over The Local Smithfield

 
I look out over death's monthly salesroom
to the charcoal green hills darkly frosted,
and see the long and grinding road whose secondary function
is to lead to a junction for a once sensual farmhouse,
lately home to a chapel-Welsh preacher,
famed for a weakness of his flannel and serge-bound flesh
and the divine mysteries of his live in and on mistresses.
Born then rather than again,
he lacked mass followings tv-presented
sung, swayed and paid in dollarous dolours,
but in a smaller sway and way,
he dicktated to his cowed and sheepish rural flockherd
their moral imperatives of fire and rimstone
for thinking very lustfully but furtively,
of the things he did so thoughtlessly and thrustfully

© kfg moore