Into the Long Grass
And when evening came,
he took the lane again.
A dog barked behind the pond.
The sun, an egg yoke,
oozed into the trees.
A rusty gate
still warm from the day.
A block of ice in his chest
melted away.
Somewhere beyond sight,
a gun cracked hollow
across the fields.
Then everything
was deeply quiet,
deeply still.
Mark Mayes has written novels, short stories, poems, songs, and a few pieces of non-fiction. He has been published widely in magazines and anthologies, and has also self-published several books.
This is quite beautiful. So much in so little. The juxtaposition in the second stanza is brilliant. Can I ask if the spelling of ‘yoke’ is intentional or a typo?
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