they came — on sunday.
our banners were held high,
but not for long.
children were trampled into the snow
by the feet of thundering horses.
men — and women were sliced to ribbons
by the sabers.
cossack laughter
rose above the screams
an old woman was struck down
by the saber blade across her back.
as she fell, the horse’s hooves crushed her legs.
then they disappeared — as quickly as they had come.
those still alive
whispered in wintry silence
for the dead and wounded.
her blood, her life staining the snow
the old woman lifted her head.
before her was a small cross
that caught the last ray of sunshine.
kissing the relic, she sighed softly,
and lay her head to rest upon the ground.
Written some time in the mid 1970s. The image, Bloody Sunday, was in an issue of one of my mother’s art magazines as part of an article about Alton Tobey.
