New Poetry by Kit Hannah

Sunday Morning

The pallid mist is silent 

Stalking through the valley 

flushing out the rats 

and bringing with it 

a faint speckling of rain 

God is resting 

he no longer presides 

over his flock - there is no need. 

when solitary shots 

echo through farmland 

panic does not stir 

rather a spectrum awakens 

from prideful comfort at upholding tradition 

to mild vexation at 

the puncturing of serenity 

though the birds don’t stop their serenade. 

if single shots stutter 

pair and mate, reproducing 

one, two, three, four, five 

times in rapid percussion 

realisation may think the veil of mist 

but never lifts it

mass shootings do not happen here. 

God would not stir 

there would be no need

the birds have not stopped their

sweet serenade  

but a cry remains 

a cry

no matter where it crawls from 

and a bullet

is a bullet 

no matter what 

it kills