Four postcards from a Village

by Parrish Lantern
(Canterbury)

The sun sits behind a far roof
like a sniper, its rays
ricochet off the walls.

A satellite dish sits catlike
neither a quisling or hero
relaying its new Morse.

Calm sits here now
altho the blooms burst
like the thunder of old tracks

History has left here
like a retreating army
their cries now, a quiet echo.