He stands watching the Chosen on the wall
Gripping the stone in both hands
Staring down into the blur of sickle blades,
Clouds of spray and snow blow behind
And all to the horizon, to the curve
Of wall that marks the shore,
Nothing but men swinging.
When the sea fills the gap
His cousins raise their spears.
For twelve hours the sun strives
And the reaper reaps.
The boy stares down into that sweep
Of hot oiled blade and tempered ice,
And I hope he will not fall.