Hackwood Lane

Some October moonlit night

there comes through mist a time lost chaise,

one horse’d, returning in gentle ghostlight

from that far-off dance, crinoline flirt, fan-hidden face,

and the young gray officer, Ivanhoe heart.

A field to the left is somehow crimson

While the fields of the great house now part 

with fire and scream and dead lines risen

to judgment, to punishment, of lives stolen

out a darkling land

so crinoline and officer may have swollen

their wealth and life, from a blistered hand.

You are murderers.