{ Ian McBryde: Reports from the Palace. }

[delga]

Reports from the Palace
by Ian McBryde

The abandoned hospital
was a godsend. We are
exhausted, and short on hope.

-

Dusty coverlets on carefully
made beds stretching
down the many wards.

-

Those of us with
training in medicine
have been taken aside
and whispered to.

-

October. No word from you.
The old cities glowing
sickly, remotely, to the east.

-

Armed guards
around the morphine.

-

Seasons slowing down.
Two of the scouts
have still not returned.

-

As yet there have
been no relays from
the south tower.

-

In the emergency bay
someone has erected
a sculpture fashioned
from used syringes.

-

The ravaged, upper sections
sealed off. No one allowed
above the third level.

-

Nightly, a rage of flame
on the horizon. The smell
of temples on fire.

-

Linen missing. Frost
on a heap of wheelchairs
stacked in the back field.

-

Another scout gone.
The meeting reset
for tomorrow.

-

Just before dawn.
All my transmissions
to you coming back
to me, unanswered.

-

Someone has been
on the roof again.
Footprints. Palmprints.
Evidence of signaling.

Comments

[belantana.livejournal.com]

Oh my, post-apocalyptic poetry. Marvellous!

[inflightdata.livejournal.com]

Fucking love McBryde. Genius.