The Abortion (Adult content)

Winter’s wrath cut 
deep, honing pain
on the stonewashed plots
of harrowed frost.
Her silvered birch,
flayed, boned, and
shadow staining
the adamantine lake,
heavy bound, weighed 
harsh with the rugged flocks 
of cursing fowl.
Its banks wearied with
age-weathered cottages
of gawking windows 
frowned with mouldy thatch
and chimney stacks coercing
the hoary blenched clouds
of burning turf through 
an ashen cast morning 
of roused jackdaws
arguing into the hard grey
and the Sunday knell 
of bells glooming
out of the night wept
frozen from the
dead end dreams of slumber
banishing into haggard yawns.

The open-doored cowshed
steaming in masticated belly cud
and she as dead 
as the cold pounded mud floor.
The steel clutched clothes hanger
still wrought hardened to her hand
in the after-botched gore 
and soured out milk 
splattered frozen
from a kicked bucket
toughening to the temperament
of death’s residues 
bloodily intruding 
on the tethered ruminants 
chewing in the dank-ridden air
of turned silage 
and the grind of 
shed rats
harrying the winter felled flesh,
gnawing into the midday sun
and the thawing maiden’s
unwanted accursed bastard
struggling into decay,
the unsanctified earth
and the condemnations
of the pulpit-pounding 
Sabbath man
scathing over
the fires of hell
and his livid-licking brethren.