Peace, pristine as spring, was falling,
falling without a sound:
Buildings imploding, ghosts of dust
looping up from the ground;
mystery molecules choking the air,
clouding stairs with people descending
to scatter like helpless ants whose hill
was flattened beneath a stone;
children dazed and drifting backwards,
back to the aftermath of the end,
deaf to their parents' calling, calling,
desperate to cradle them in;
branches of trees were silently snapping,
falling with autumn leaves still clinging:
Crimson, copper and gold unknowing
their source was stripped of its source.
No more leaves and no more people,
no fresh breeze for the soon-to-be dead.
It was the last autumn that I would enjoy,
and Time, with the gods, had already fled.
7/08
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Christina Poetry 
