The one clear eye casts itself to avenir.
Lone and fear-stricken,
adrift on clotted fields
and brassened sky.
Weed and serpent slide unheeding
under barbarous flare,
with no watering hand
and no feet on the path.
Only ravens’ judgements
and mocking clouds.
The one clear eye wails at the coming carnage.
And I sit, and wrestle my murky eye to today.