Poetry by Christie Dickason

The Darkening (dies irae)

Our days of wrath reduce
the world to ash.
What tremblings there have been.
What tremblings are to come.
What heavy judgements on us
will our children lay.
Our sins avenge themselves today
in circling fires, black smoke
and awkward charring bones.
Stunned, we stand to render account.
The day of wrath is now.
That which is hidden rises
like dead white-bellied fish.

Where is the judge?
Who sounds the trumpet?
To what guardians can we appeal?
Even the just man is not safe.
There, among blind lolling heads
of our last breeding cows
the last of the sheep
grandfather bred,
strangers dressed all in white
wrench today
from the neck of yesterday
forever.
Some of it passes by, for now.
For some of us
there is only the abyss.

That which has been buried rises now.
Nothing stays unavenged.
Denying darkness brings no light.
Where is the judge?
Who sounds the trumpet?
To what guardians can we appeal?
The day of wrath is now.