The final sunlit hours were fading
as we made one final dash
from the farm house
under a fusillade of poisoned rays,
the lively light of our bright star
dying from view.
Darkness rose up from the soil, and our souls
like a theological anomaly, a satanic infection,
a pustulant pestilence from beyond the Earth.
The Vicar was dead; they were all dead,
millions and millions in the night.
A silver disk held aloft in the sky
by means of a magnetic flux
like invisible legs, the moon
rose over the low and tired horizon.
We gathered in our toppled churches,
under shattering stained-glass windows
while a Roman solder tossed dice on the stairs.
Outside, night had come; midnight
tumbled the stones and bricks
of our miserable defenses.