The Little Toy Soldier

A little toy soldier’s been left outside,

stiff betwixt spires sticking up to clouds

from their thick concrete continent. Wispy crowds

breathe by, letting loose prayers of stockpiled

sighs. These eat, acidic, its long-dried aspect;

till it blooms new fumes, drowning doubts

in Mary’s hand, finely pressing out

their blessed amber, knots of life, to jilted lines.


The shooting star fells it; our soldier sinks

to worm-wooden knees and, to its face, hands.

Sheltering petrified map symbols writ,

it thinks, by impurities graven deep

when human minds interred their dreams in land.


It aches for gods, whose wrath—soon—will relieve it.



--Luke Fredette, 31/12/2024

Theme : Social Criticism, War, Environment