Desperate refugees man

long bats for flight across

uncharted waters. Become like

characters in a Bergman movie

huddled together in the rudderless

craft for warmth.  find the way

forward blocked by the bloated,

the waterlogged dead. There is

no going back, no path forward

to what lies on the other side.

Without food or water, it won’t

be long before they arrive there.

Vagrants sleeping

rough in scrub brush

near where the deer lie down,

their rent clothes

too soiled for rags

and a soaked, tightly bound

bed roll that may no longer

be used for sleeping.

Wild berries by the makeshift

dwelling mildew rotten

and he brown leaves of tree

canopies are blighted

with a black spot disease.

This is what summer’s end looks

like now

The lighthouse is electric

at night. The smooth,

white-washed stone is

being subsumed by an

alien life form: plankton

bioluminescent as moonglow

in transit.  If we look too long

at what the tower looks like now,

our eyes begin to bleed

The white widow is naked

without her weeds, pacing

all night about the lighthouse

tower inviting the storm down

from the clouds, forcing stored

power from the ground to rise

as if coaxing the light from within

to energize the fractured sky.

At Gravesend retaining walls

and headstones have been

plundered for shelters.  

Anything wooden has been

carted away and burnt.

Some plots here have been

vandalized, the exhumed bodies

stripped of anything of value

and left where they were thrown.

When the noon day siren blares

we expect them to rise up

to answer the call.

Even hawks flocking now

concentrically circling fields

stripped of life. There are more

birds than there is prey.

We retreat from their sightlines

as well as we can, as far into

the interior as the trees will allow.

It is only a matter of time.